


Means and Mendacity

by so_shhy



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Fluff and Angst, I have probably read too many Georgette Heyer novels, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Virginity, age difference (18 and 28), but it's all pretty implausible, homosexuality is accepted, i.e. all of them, there's a bit of plot in there somewhere, this was disturbingly easy to write, young and stupid!Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 00:54:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 38,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/so_shhy/pseuds/so_shhy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a young thief named Clint Barton saves the lives of Lord and Lady Stark he finds himself caught up in a bewildering series of events, involving an unexpected fortune, an arranged marriage, a blackmail plot, and the full spectrum of spies, lies and secrets.</p><p>An unashamedly ridiculous Regency romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Means and Mendacity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sperrywink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sperrywink/gifts).



> Written for Sperrywink for the Clint/Coulson holiday exchange. I’m sorry I mangled the prompt - I tried to get plenty of your likes in there to make up for it. Happy holidays!
> 
> Many thanks to Tawabids for a fantastic beta job, especially because she had basically 24 hours to do it in. Any remaining mistakes are obviously my own.

The grey clouds were threatening snow as Clint Barton traipsed through the strip of woodland on the crest of the hill. On the other side of the trees he would find a field where, if he was lucky, he might bag a few of the rabbits that appeared out of their warrens as dusk approached. Beyond that was the road that would lead him home to the town where he and Barney were staying.

It was cold enough that he had no wish to stay out longer than he needed to. As soon as he had some game in his bag he’d be back to town and warming his hands by the fire in the inn. For now he shouldered his bow and tucked his fingers under his jacket to banish the chill for a few moments.

On the edge of the trees he paused. Sure enough, the little dark shapes of rabbits were grazing peacefully on the hillside. They made no move to run when he began to creep into a good vantage point for shooting, or even when the noise of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels drifted across from the road.

Clint raised his head to watch the coach. It was a rich travelling coach, vibrantly painted in red with a gilt crest and curlicues, shamelessly gaudy. The team of horses trotted along at a steady pace, eating up the ground but in no real hurry. They could not mean to travel far before the light faded, Clint thought, and spared a moment to imagine the passengers inside such a rich vehicle. It might almost have belonged to a prince.

As he watched and mused, the crack of a pistol shot broke the quiet of the evening, shockingly loud. The rabbits scattered, streaking for their burrows, and Clint leapt to his feet, looking wildly around. Suddenly the road was swarming with people. Men and horses appeared from another patch of woodland to surround the coach. Another shot rang out, and the coach came to a standstill. The driver and grooms sat frozen on the box, hands raised, covered by two riders with guns. The rest of the men dismounted and surrounded the coach doors. After a brief scuffle a man was dragged out, and pushed to his knees on the ground. A lady followed, held tight by two of the men. 

The man who appeared to be the leader levelled his pistol at the head of the man on the ground.

Clint reached for his bow.

The figures were at a distance that made him bite his lip even as he drew the arrow. He could shoot the man in the back or the leg, but that was no guarantee that he wouldn’t fire as he fell. The only way to be sure was to go for his hand. Clint took a breath and let his mind expand into the long, slow moment before the arrow released.

He imagined that he felt the impact as it hit.

The man cried out and turned. Clint’s next arrow took him in the shoulder. The third went into the back of one of the men holding the coachmen at pistol point. His horse bolted as he fell, knocking another two men off their feet, and that, it seemed, was enough. As the scene was thrown into confusion the driver and grooms jumped into action, and the man on the ground was suddenly possessed of a gun from some mysterious hiding place.

Clint set off down the hillside at a run. By the time he came panting up to the coach with an arrow still nocked on his bow, two men were dead, one of the grooms was bleeding from a knife wound and the rest of the attackers had run for their horses and were over the brow of the hill.

It was the lady who saw him first, as the coachman and groom were tending to their companion, and the gentleman was on his knees by the corpse of the robber. Clint saw her hand come up to cover her mouth as he neared her. Her eyes settled on his bow, and then came up questioningly to meet his own.

“It was you?”

The words were spoken in refined voice, which gave him a little shock of recognition. It had been years since he’d heard someone speak that way, and longer still since he’d needed to himself. 

He nodded, returned the arrow to its quiver and slung the bow across his back. “I saw you from the hilltop.”

She was very beautiful, despite her rumpled gown and the few tears she was brushing away from the corners of her eyes. Her hair was red-gold and simply dressed, and her travelling cloak was of rich wool trimmed with fur. She gave him a watery smile. “Thank you. Oh, I do thank you. Tony,” she called to the man, who was now getting to his feet and dusting himself off, “are you well?”

“Well enough,” the man said. He sounded tense and angry, as well he might be, and his eyes flashed as he looked in the direction the men had fled.

Clint followed his gaze. With the rush of action over, he was beginning to feel very confused. “What happened?” he said. “Why would they attack you?”

The man turned to Clint. He had very white teeth, and his smile held something of the devil in it, vicious and enticing at once. “I’m told that most people of my acquaintance have wished to shoot me at one time or another,” he drawled. “There are too many reasons to count. These were simply in it for the money.”

“But there have been no highwaymen in these parts for years,” Clint said.

The man and woman glanced at each other. “We're a tempting target,” the man said. He bowed to Clint with impressive grace. “Your servant, sir. Anthony Edwards, Lord Stark.”

“Lord Stark?” Clint said incredulously. He looked the man up and down with far more curious eyes. The doings of the nobility were not much talked of in the circles he frequented, but he could not help but have heard stories of the country's most notorious and richest rake. Stark was exactly as beautiful as the rumours held. A face that would make an angel cast aside its virtue and tumble into bed with him, people said.

His lordship's deep, dark eyes were focused fully and sharply on Clint now.

“May we know the name of our rescuer?” asked the lady, whose existence Clint had briefly forgotten.

“Clint Barton, your ladyship.”

“Your ladyship?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Sir, if you know aught of Lord Stark, surely you cannot imagine I am his wife.”

“I... oh...” Clint stammered, flushing to the roots of his hair. “Are you not?”

“She is,” Lord Stark said, “and she chooses the least appropriate moments to indulge her sense of humour. Pepper, my love, I would prefer that you torment our preserver from the safety of the carriage.”

“Anything to please you, my lord.”

“If only that were so,” he lamented as he handed her up.

There was a short bustle of activity while the injured groom was loaded onto the box with the driver and the corpses were pragmatically left to lie and freeze by the road until a constable could be notified. Clint stood amid it all, not entirely sure what to do. Probably he could slip away and still bag a few rabbits before the light was gone. But the lord and lady seemed certain that he would await their convenience, and that kept him cooling his heels by the roadside until all was arranged.

“You’ll dine with us, of course,” Lord Stark said, coming to Clint’s side.

Clint blinked. It was unheard of for a fine lady and gentleman to dine with one such as him. Barney would tell him to accept; the Quality had open hands and unwatched pockets, and not taking advantage of such an opportunity would be a crying shame. But he didn’t want to steal from Lord Stark.

He shook his head awkwardly. “No my lord, I can’t.”

“I think you’ll find there’s no insurmountable obstacle.”

“I have to bring back rabbits for my brother’s supper,” Clint lied. Actually the rabbits were to sell in town so he might have a few shillings of his own to spend. He and Barney were comfortably off just then due to a string of successful burglaries, but Barney held the purse strings and wasn’t generous in handing out pocket money.

“And where is your brother?”

“Farnham, on the road to London. Some two miles from here.”

Lord Stark tilted his head. “How convenient.”

Lady Stark leaned a little way out of the coach to join the conversation. “As it happens we’re to put up for the night at the Crown Hotel in Farnham. We’ll convey you back to town and have a good supper sent your brother while we dine.”

“I don’t think--”

“Or I could have you arrested for poaching on my land and convey you to Farnham in chains.”

“Tony, don’t be unkind,” Lady Stark said. “And this is not your land.”

“I’ll buy it.”

“I’ll come,” Clint said hurriedly. He had the feeling that any further argument would be futile.

“Into the coach with you, then.”

Clint looked with misgiving at the fine cloth of the seats and then down at his muddied boots and breeches. “I think it would be better that I ride outside.”

“You’ll ride with us,” Stark said, as if correcting him on a point of fact. He paused while Clint dithered, then laid a guiding hand on his elbow and prompted, “‘Yes, my lord,’” in a voice that brooked no argument.

“Yes, my lord,” Clint said, feeling his face heat at the touch. 

He sat across from the pair of them as the coach started to move, trying not to make it too obvious that he didn’t know where to put his muddy feet. To take his mind off his awkwardness he turned his attention back to his companions, assessing them with surreptitious glances. When people told tales of Lord Stark they tended to mock or pity his wife – a woman almost on the shelf who had married the rake out of desperation just a year before – but her ladyship did not seem to be a poor creature, and nor was Stark a slavering letch. Clint found himself liking them both. They were remarkably calm for a lord and lady who had just escaped a violent attack, or they seemed so until he saw how they sat, pressed shoulder to shoulder, gripping tight to each other’s hands.

“So, Mr Barton,” Lady Stark said once they were safely underway, “you’re quite the marksman.”

“The best I’ve seen,” Lord Stark said. He gestured to the bow leaning against Clint’s knee. “And that weapon is wasted on taking pot-shots at rabbits.”

Clint dropped his gaze guiltily. The bow was the one he’d taken from the circus, a gorgeous recurve, far better quality than his usual little hunting bow. It was lucky that he’d decided to give it an outing, because he’d needed the extra range. But the graceful, polished curves of it certainly drew attention.

“As you say, sir,” he said, retreating behind good manners. “Do you shoot?”

Lord Stark laughed. “I do. But don’t turn the subject. While I usually love to talk of nothing but myself I’ll have the tale of your skill out of you first, if you please.”

Faced with such a direct approach Clint was forced to choose between telling his tale, being unforgivably rude, or coming up with a plausible lie on the spot. “You know of Astley’s in London?” he said, after a moment’s indecision. Surely it couldn’t hurt to tell them just a little.

“Of course.”

“I learned there, and at the Cirque Olympique in Paris. I was part of an archery act.”

“Indeed?” Lady Stark said. “What was your act?”

“Lots of things. To hit three targets with three arrows at once, or to deflect flaming torches thrown towards me, or to shoot an apple off a lady’s head blindfolded.” He ran his fingertips over the wood of the bow, smooth enough to almost glow from within, and smiled at the memory of how the crowd had roared its approval for him – or mostly for whichever of the girls had squeezed into the low-bosomed costume to play target for the night. Life hadn’t been all bad, back then. “I can stand on my hands and shoot a bow with my toes, too. Or I could. I haven’t tried it in a while.”

Lord Stark made a small choking noise. Her ladyship frowned at him.

“So you’re not a performer anymore?” she asked Clint.

“No, my lady.”

“What is it that you do now?”

“My brother and I take whatever honest work comes our way,” Clint said, with what he felt was commendable sincerity. In fact he and Barney would take almost anything that came their way, from unsavoury jobs to unattended valuables. “We’re journeying to Guildford now. A friend there has promised us work in his livery stables.”

He had found that it was always wise to lay a false trail or two just in case.

Dusk was turning to dark when the coach came to a halt outside a hotel that stood out among the ordinary shops and houses like a swan amid a flock of ducks. It was the finest one in town. Clint knew that he didn’t belong in it. Dressed for traipsing over the hills he looked barely more respectable now than when he’d been just another orphan on the streets of London, begging for ha’pennies from whoever looked least likely to respond with a kick. 

“Mr Barton?”

He found himself grinning at the audacity of them. They’d march a scruffy poacher into a grand hotel as their guest, and assume that the world would reshape itself to accommodate them. Such were the nobility.

“I am afraid I have no evening attire with me, my lady,” he said, drawing on his hard-learned and half-forgotten company manners. “Will you forgive me if I don’t dress for dinner?”

She laughed. “Since you ask so nicely.”

His lordship’s smile made Clint tingle. Her ladyship’s filled him with a different, comfortable warmth. Daring to risk a little audacity of his own, he offered the crook of his arm to her. “May I have the pleasure of escorting you inside?”

“Decidedly,” she said, slipping her hand into it.

“I am undone,” Lord Stark said, lifting a theatrical hand to his brow. “Cuckolded by a pretty youth with a poaching bag.”

“A _very_ pretty youth,” her ladyship said serenely.

***

As soon as they entered the inn they were surrounded by the Starks’ own servants, who had come ahead to make preparations for the travellers. Clint was hustled away to have his boots relieved of the worst of the mud and his disreputable coat ineffectually brushed, and to be given a clean shirt and a jug of warm water to wash his hands and face. He was delivered back into Lord Stark’s company a trifle more presentable and slightly breathless. Lady Stark joined them, having shed her travelling cloak and redressed her hair, and they settled down in the private parlour.

Clint was surprised to find himself feeling quite relaxed. It might have had something to do with the glass of wine that had been pressed on him, or perhaps the warmth of the fire after the February chill, but much of it was the easy friendliness of his host and hostess. By the time they sat down to dinner he was laughing along with Lord Stark’s stories and offering a few of his own tales in return. After the meal drew to a close they sat for a while longer, until Lord Stark said, “Mr Barton, you are headed to Guildford, I think you said.”

“Yes, we’ll move on in the morning.”

“Good. It is nearby to my estate, and it will be easy formy man of business to meet with you there once I have arranged for a transfer of funds.” He looked over at his wife. “What do you say, my love? Five thousand is a nice round sum.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Yes, I think so. Invested in the five per cents it would give two hundred and fifty pounds a year.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady?” Clint said, having somewhat lost the thread.

Lord Stark raised an eyebrow. “Did you think that a hot meal would be all your recompense for this day’s work?”

Clint flicked his eyes between the two of them, bewildered. He was not sure if he had heard right, because what they seemed to be saying was unbelievable. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“He’s an impeccable shot,” Lord Stark said, sighing, “but I do think that he needs some schooling in other areas. I made myself perfectly plain.”

“Tony, don’t overwhelm the poor boy,” Lady Stark said. She gave Clint a smile that was at once kindly and amused. “Mr Barton, in his own idiosyncratic way my husband is attempting to reward you for your services to us.”

“But…’ Clint said, “did you say five thousand pounds?”

“Yes.”

“You can't give me five thousand pounds.”

“I can do exactly as I please,” Lord Stark said, grinning. “It’s one of the benefits of wealth.” 

“But it's a fortune.”

“Hardly a fortune. It might buy my lady's gowns and hats for the season.”

“I believe I am not quite so extravagant,” Lady Stark said.

“She likes to be exceedingly well dressed,” Lord Stark said. He quirked a devilish eyebrow at Clint. “I, however, prefer her to be--”

“Tony, I advise you not to finish that sentence,” Lady Stark said, without turning her head. “Mr Barton, I do hope you will accept the money. His Lordship has a great deal more of it than he knows what to do with. He wishes to reward you and he becomes quite impossible when he doesn't get his own way.”

“You deserve a reward,” Lord Stark said, turning serious. “I hold my life to be worth a good deal more than five thousand pounds, and my lady's-” here he took her hand and brought it to his lips, “-is beyond price.”

Clint could only stare at them.

 

**********

 

The meaning of what had happened didn’t begin to sink in until he actually said it out loud to Barney.

He had to explain twice, because when he got to the tavern where they were staying he found Barney was cheerfully drunk. In response to the news of their unexpected windfall he patted Clint on the cheek and said he’d always been a good boy, and then turned back to his equally inebriated companion and restarted their discussion about that afternoon’s cock fight.

Clint considered getting himself a mug of ale, but he knew it wouldn’t sit well on top of the wine and rich food. He took himself off to bed and lay for a long time staring up at the ceiling before sleep finally claimed him.

He woke to a juddering impact in the world around him, and rolled over with a complaining noise.

“Oi,” Barney said, giving the bed another kick. “Get up, bird-boy.”

“What do you want?”

“Up, Clint.” It was an order this time. “You were telling me something last night. What was it?”

“You were too slobbering drunk to listen,” Clint said, pulling the covers away from his face and scowling.

“And now I ain’t. Out with it.”

Clint grumbled but obediently repeated his tale, watching Barney’s face as he did so. It showed interest, then scepticism, then, slowly, a broadening grin.

“And I’m to call in to the offices of a lawyer in Guildford a sennight from today, so that the money can be put in my name,” Clint finished, answering Barney’s grin with one of his own. Now he was properly awake the excitement at their change of fortune was taking hold of him again.

“Five thousand pounds, eh?” Barney said, with a glitter in his eye. “Well, it's a start.”

“Start of a new life,” Clint said. He swung his legs out of the bed, wincing at the cold of the floor, and reached for his breeches. “We could go into business. Buy up a livery stable and look after horses.”

“You think I want to be looking after other people’s animals for the rest of my days? I had enough of that at the circus.”

“Well, we don’t have to,” Clint said philosophically. He wouldn’t have minded, himself. He’d always liked horses. “We don’t have to work at all. It’ll earn us two hundred and fifty pounds a year, her ladyship said. That’s enough for both of us to live like fine gentlemen, comfortable as you please.” He found his shirt as well and pulled it on – not his own shirt, but the beautifully soft one that had belonged to Lord Stark, then slipped on his boots and shrugged on his jacket. “Shall we get breakfast?”

“The best breakfast the tavern has to offer,” Barney said, slinging an arm around his shoulder. “And as for comfortable – hah! If we play our cards right we’ll be much more than comfortable.”

“What do you mean?” Clint said as they went down to the taproom to bespeak their breakfast.

“You’ve got rich friends now, Clint. Do you know what the point of having rich friends is?”

Clint frowned.

“They can keep making you richer,” Barney said.

Laughing, Clint took his seat at one of the taproom tables. “Sorry Barney, I doubt I can save Lord Stark from being robbed a second time. Unless you want to play the highwayman and have me shoot you.”

“Don’t be a fool.”

“I’d get you in the arse, I swear. Nothing that’d do any real damage.”

“It’s your arse that’ll be smarting if you don’t watch out.”

“Try it and you’ll find a mouse in your bed tonight,” Clint said as the landlord’s wife bustled over with plates of ham and mugs of ale. Barney told him to shut his mouth and eat his breakfast, and Clint pointed out that he could do one or the other but not both, and in the continuing brotherly squabble Barney’s cryptic comment was forgotten.

***

Lord Stark’s lawyer in Guildford was brisk and business-like and gave the impression that he moved sums of £5,000 around every day. Clint stood fiddling with his shirt cuffs while Barney did the talking.

Barney understood money. Clint was the one who could shin up a drainpipe and slip into a manor house through the window, but Barney was the one who told him which house to enter and what to look for while he was there. Barney knew how to turn whatever trinkets Clint could get his hands on into stacks of coins and rolls of soft, and Barney knew how to use that money to buy their own safety and other people’s silence. And now he was talking about accounts and percentages and all sorts of things that Clint had never needed to understand.

Clint tuned it out, for the most part, letting his mind wander. Two hundred and fifty pounds a year. He didn’t know how much he and Barney had earned together the past year, but surely not near such a sum. And it had been eaten away by bed and board in taverns, and tickets on the stage, and all the other costs of people who moved around so much. If they could rent a house and buy food at market their lives would be cheaper. They could employ a woman to cook and clean for them, or maybe even _two_ servants if they got a large enough house.

He got a little bit stuck at that point, because he wasn’t sure what he’d do with his days if they weren’t travelling around or scouting out jobs or visiting Barney’s contacts. He supposed he could do as he liked. Perhaps travel sometimes, if Natasha let him know where he might meet her. Perhaps buy a horse, or--

“Clint,” Barney said, breaking in on his thoughts, “isn’t that kind of his Lordship?”

Clint blinked, trying and failing to work out where the conversation had got to. “Isn’t what kind?”

Barney shot him a look that promised a scolding for inattentiveness would soon be coming his way. “Lord Stark has asked you to call on him at Stark Manor tomorrow.” He turned back to the lawyer with a pleased nod. “You can tell him Clint’ll be there bright and early in his Sunday best. It’s not every day a lad gets to take tea with a viscount and his lady.”

Behind the lawyer’s bland mask Clint could see a clear flicker of disdain. Barney might have impressive financial understanding but he had the accent and manners of a man born to haul coal or muck out stables, and he was as far from polite circles as a rat was from the moon. The words going through the lawyer’s head were, without doubt, _common as muck_.

“Thank you,” Clint said coldly. “You may tell his lordship that I am entirely at his convenience and I will wait on him at eleven.”

He drew himself up as he said it, and put as much of the Swordsman’s lazy hauteur into the words as he possibly could. It won him a flash of unnerved surprise from the lawyer. Barney grinned, and Clint had to work hard not to grin back.

***

At the circus all the gossips said that Clint’s one-time master was a disgraced nobleman. It was probably true judging by the look of pained disgust that used to cross his face when some word or mannerism reminded him of his protégé’s ignorance and low origins. In the five years Clint had lived under the man's tutelage he spent the time he wasn't being drilled on bowmanship having polite speech, gentlemanly deportment and a basic education drummed into his unwilling brain. By halfway through his apprenticeship he was being thrashed more often for a lazily pronounced word than a misplaced shot, and by the end of it he had learned never to falter on either front. He had ended up with a cut-glass accent, an over-abundance of manners, more than a few scars on his back and a quite unfair reputation for thinking he was better than the rest of the performers in the troupe.

When the Swordsman finally beat him half to death, leaving him to be dragged out of the gutter and put back together by his mostly-estranged brother, he had struggled through the misery that followed by taking fierce delight in reacquiring the accent of the London slums. But even now, three years on, the voice that narrated his thoughts still spoke with the crisp vowels of the genteel class.

***

“Will you come with me tomorrow?” Clint asked, once they were settled in a brand new and rather more expensive inn. Barney had bills to the value of fifty pounds in his pocket, an advance on their funds that was more than enough to allow them a little extra luxury.

“No,” Barney said, after taking a long swig from his ale. “Best they don’t know me. If we’re to make good use of your fine friends you’ll need to be a nice young gentleman, not the brother of a stable hand.”

Clint frowned. “This again? Barney, they know I’m the brother of a stable hand. They know I was an archer at Astley’s. We’ve already got the money and I can’t get any more. There’s nothing to be gained from me pretending to be something I’m not.”

“You,” Barney said, “don’t have the gumption you were born with. What’s the matter with you, Clint? You know there’s more to be had from them. Stark could hand that money out to you once a month if he wanted to.”

“But he doesn’t want to. Why should he?”

“You were always the slow one,” Barney said, rolling his eyes. “We make it worth his while. He’ll pay up if he knows what’s good for him.”

Clint didn’t find himself particularly enlightened by this explanation. “What in hell’s name are you talking about?”

“Make him your friend, little brother. Get into his confidence, and I guarantee you’ll find something that would hurt him if it were known to the world.”

The smells of frying meat from the kitchen had been enticing a moment before, but Clint found his appetite had deserted him. “You mean blackmail,” he said. “You want us to blackmail Lord Stark?”

“He's rich, ain't he? And ripe with scandals as I hear.”

Clint nodded dumbly, remembering the lavish red and gold coach and the servants flocking around him, and Stark’s devil-may-care smile that had softened so sweetly when his Lady laughed.

“Then there you have it,” Barney said.

“But we can't blackmail him,” Clint said with a flood of relief as he discovered a very practical flaw in the plan. “He's already got the worst reputation of any nobleman in the country. Even if we found a new scandal, nobody would notice it among all the others. He's rich enough that it doesn't matter what he does.”

“Hmm.” Barney frowned. “Maybe so, but he'll have friends that aren't so untouchable, and every one of them will be hiding something. Gentlefolk are just another den of thieves and strumpets, but one as hides their filth under pretty clothes and holds their noses high enough that they can't smell the reek of each other. There's a scandal behind every closed door, if you can only get in to look.”

“I can’t get in to look. I’ve only met him once.”

“And you’ll meet him again tomorrow. It’ll take a little work to make acquaintance into friendship, but you’re a personable lad when you’ve a mind to be.”

“And then he’ll introduce me to all the Quality, I suppose? And they’ll befriend a nameless archer from Astley’s without a blink? Barney, you’ve run mad.”

Barney slammed his hand down on the table. “Mind your tongue, you snot-nosed brat. If I hear any more contrariness from you then you’ll get a lesson in manners from my fist.”

Clint ducked his head, biting his lip. He could hear Barney’s breathing, quickened with anger, even over all the noises of the taproom. “I just don’t think it would answer,” he said.

“And what do you know about anything? We’ve got a golden opportunity here, thanks to your precious Swordsman. He taught you to talk like a gentleman, and I never thought I'd see the day I'd be grateful for it.”

“Nobody’s grateful for it,” Clint said. “And I _don’t_ talk like a gentleman.”

But he had done so. With Lord and Lady Stark there to remind him of the way of it, he had fallen easily back into the more refined tones and the little verbal courtesies the Swordsman had demanded of him. He hadn’t even noticed at the time. It had felt so natural.

“I don’t understand why you want to do this,” he said. His heart, so light a moment ago, was now somewhere in his boots. “Barney, why? I don’t know how to blackmail anyone, and I don’t want to.”

“I know how,” Barney said. “You think I don’t? It’s no more than I’ve done before to make sure there was food in your belly and clothes on your back. All you’ll do is find the tales. Find out whose little daughter isn’t so pure, and we’ll see what papa will do to keep us from publishing it abroad. Find out which wife has been giving her husband a slip on the shoulder, and how much of her pin money she’d pay to keep him from casting her aside when we make it known. The stories needn’t even be true. Just find some folks who would pay to avoid even the hint of a scandal, and leave the rest to me. It’s all money in our pockets.” He made a derisive noise. “Haven't we always targeted the Quality? And why? Because they don't deserve what they have, and we've every right to take it from them.”

Privately Clint suspected that they targeted the upper members of society because they were the ones with things worth stealing, but he knew better than to say so. “Stealing's one thing,” he said stubbornly, “but you shouldn't hurt someone after making them think you're their friend.”

Barney burst out laughing. “Fine morals for someone who sits down to tea with the Black Widow. Don't you think every man she ever killed felt sure she was his friend?”

“That's different,” Clint said. He couldn't think why, just at that minute, but it was. “Blackmailing people isn't fair.”

“What does _fair_ matter? Was it fair that they were born with silver spoons in their mouths while we had to beg for our bread in the gutter? You and I have the chance to live like kings and you want to throw it all away for the sake of people who think you lower than something they'd scrape off their boot.”

“Lord Stark didn't treat me like something he'd scrape off his boot.”

“He had reason to be grateful to you. And that's our chance, Clint. That's our way in. He'll open the door for you, and all you have to do is walk through. You learn to move in their circles, find out their dirty secrets, and we'll be in bread and butter for life. “

“We've already got five thousand pounds,” Clint said hopelessly. “Isn't that enough?”

“It earns us two hundred and fifty pounds a year.”

“I know.”

“We’ll make that five times over once we’ve ten of them under our thumb.” Barney grinned again, well satisfied with himself. “Tomorrow you’ll ask your fine lady and gentleman to introduce you to society, and once you’re a nob among the nobs we’ll start dipping our fingers in a few pockets. Ah, here’s our supper.”

Clint sighed as the plate was set in front of him. He had no idea what they would do with so much money. Nothing good, probably.

 

********** 

 

The gig turned through the gates of Stark Manor at a little before eleven. An inch or two of snow had fallen the night before, turning the landscaped curves of the grounds into billowing clouds from which the house itself emerged like a fairy-tale castle, buttery stone misted by the few flakes of snow still spiralling down.

Clint hopped down in front of the steps up to the doors, wishing he could go with the driver to find warmth and a mug of tea in the stables. He felt stiff with apprehension, and uncomfortable in his best clothes. The new, fashionable rig they’d ordered from the tailor would not be ready for two days at least, and his coat was going to look shabby beside Lord Stark’s footmen, let alone their master. He took a deep breath, thinking of Natasha. _Believe it, and others will too,_ she’d always told him. He just had to convince himself. These ugly clothes were beneath a gentleman like him, but by some mischance he had to wear them. It was tiresome but not shameful.

Now he just had to avoid gaping like a fool when confronted with a grandly-decorated room or an intimidating butler.

 _Mr Clinton Barton,_ he told himself, _a gentleman of property, at home to a peg in any society, and fully aware of his own worth._

Gaining entry was far easier than he’d feared. The servants had obviously been warned to expect him, and he was conducted into a library with the minimum of fuss and left to cool his heels while Lord Stark was summoned.

After a minute of nervous pacing he amused himself reading the spines of the books. Some were fashionable novels or poetry – the works of Lord Byron, Scott’s _Waverley_ and the like. Others were treatise on more involved topics. Sir Isaac Newton played a large part, and a number of other philosophers and mathematicians. Clint recognised their names from the swordsman’s lengthy discourses that had been half lessons and half rants bemoaning his astonishing ignorance.

He had pulled out a volume and was flicking through diagrams of wheels and pistons when a step sounded behind him. He turned, surprised to see not his lordship but Lady Stark, in an elegant walking dress with her cloak thrown over her arm, smiling warmly at him.

“Mr Barton,” she said. “Thank you so much for coming. How do you do?”

“Very well, my lady,” he said, feeling his old master breathing down his neck and judging every word that came out of his mouth. “My brother and I met with your husband’s lawyer yesterday. I must thank you again for your generosity.”

“I thought we’d agreed that we were in your debt, not the other way around.”

He knew he was blushing. They’d given him far more than he could ever have expected, and he was most definitely in their debt, so he couldn’t agree with her. But he couldn’t disagree either. “A gentleman should never contradict a lady,” he said helplessly, and was relieved when she laughed.

“You have excellent manners, Mr Barton. It’s so refreshing, when my husband has the manners of an ox. I must apologise for his absence. I’m told he said something extremely uncomplimentary to the poor footman sent to roust him from his work. The only thing to be done is for us to go and unearth him ourselves.”

Clint followed her obediently. Instead of showing him to a study, as he expected, she swung her cloak about her shoulders and led him outside, possessing herself of an umbrella on the way to protect herself from the inclement weather. They were halfway through a bare, leafless rose garden by the time he realised he should have taken it and held it over her, but it would look strange to offered so late so he could only berate himself inwardly and hope she didn’t think him too uncouth.

She took him across to a building he had taken for the stables. Instead of horses it was equipped with benches and tools and what looked to be a forge, though it was now not lit. It also held Lord Stark, half concealed under a bizarre contraption of oil-streaked metal.

“Tony,” Lady Stark said.

He emerged, grinning, and hopped to his feet. “Pepper, my love, light of my life. You look altogether too beautiful.”

“And you look like a blacksmith,” Lady Stark said, surveying him with long-suffering patience. As he came up to her she reopened her umbrella with a sharp snap, holding it between them like a shield. “No, Tony, this is a new gown. You'll come no closer until you've bathed.”

“Do you hear that, Mr Barton?” Lord Stark said, turning his damnably attractive smile on Clint. “She values her finery over her husband. Ah, the fickleness of women.” 

“You'll survive the disappointment,” Lady Stark said, unimpressed. “My gown would not survive your attentions. You may claim your kiss when you're fit to be seen.”

Lord Stark looked down at his thoroughly oil-smeared shirt and buckskins and sighed theatrically. “All this fuss over a smudge. Farewell, fair cruelty, I will subject myself to my valet’s clutches. Mr Barton, you very obedient servant.”

He whisked himself off. Clint tried to hide his smile, then met her ladyship’s dancing eyes and gave up entirely.

“He is entertaining, if nothing else,” she said, laughing. “Perhaps not the kind of man I thought to marry, but I am rarely bored.”

“What is all of this?” Clint asked, gesturing at the machine.

“I have no idea. A new way of harvesting corn, perhaps, or a means of steering a hot air balloon effectively, or whatever else chanced to cross his mind this morning. Science is his passion. Management of his estates and his fortune interests him not at all, which is fortunate because it interests me a great deal.”

As she spoke she tucked her arm into his and steered him back towards the house. Clint was by now becoming quite used to being led meekly around, and let himself be settled into a pretty sitting room and pressed with a cup of tea without protest. Lady Stark kept up a gently entertaining talk of trifles and anecdotes, and let Clint chatter too, listening with every sign of interest as he told her about time at the _Cirque Olympique_ and demonstrated his slightly rusty French. Then somehow the conversation turned to birds and she rang the bell for a servant who was sent to the library for an illustrated treatise on the birds of the West Indies that Clint poured over raptly for the next ten minutes, sadly neglecting his hostess.

“Thank you for showing it to me,” he said sheepishly as he finally closed it and set it aside.

“I don’t know when it was last read. You should keep it, you’d appreciate it so much more than Tony or I.” She shot him a rueful smile. “And now I’ve put you to the blush. I’m sorry, I will try not to offer you any more extravagant gifts. But we owe you a lot, you see, and we wish to help you in any way we can.”

Clint swallowed. Well, he thought, this was as good a time as any to get down to business. “Perhaps you can help me by giving me some advice,” he said.

“Of course. Anything in my power.”

“I have all this money now,” he said, trying to remember the phrasing he'd worked out beforehand, “and I want to use it to make a better life for myself. I thought you might know the best way to go about that.”

“That depends,” Lady Stark said. “What do you consider a better life?”

A house, Clint thought sadly. Somewhere safe, that people could come back to. Somewhere with space for horses, so that he would never have to see one of his favourites from the circus be sent away to be rendered down into tallow and glue. Somewhere Natasha could visit when she was tired, where she could set aside her armour and laugh with him. Somewhere where nobody would ever be hungry or cold.

It was just a dream. Barney was the one to say what the best use of this money would be. Clint took a deep breath and managed to get it all out in a rush.

“Could I become a London gentleman, with rooms in town, and go to parties, and make friends among the fashionable set?”

Lady Stark raised her brows at him. “Is that something you would like to do?”

Clint tried not to let his feelings show on his face. To be perfectly honest, there was nothing he would like less. “I would,” he said, “very much.”

Lady Stark looked at him searchingly for a little while. “Well,” she said, “it would be a little complicated. The money is not a problem - there are many in town who live on less than you have available to you, and it would be quite eligible for you to increase your funds with some genteel employment, as a secretary, perhaps. The real stumbling block is that you have no contacts in the polite world and nobody to vouch for your character.”

Clint felt cold embarrassment settle in his stomach as he looked at her beautiful face. No contacts who would vouch for him, he thought bitterly. So the gratitude of Lord and Lady Stark ran only as far as money. Barney was right. Even these two, who had seemed so welcoming, believed he was beneath them.

“I suppose I was mistaken to think that one such as yourself would act as my contact,” he said, hoping his voice sounded sneering rather than hurt.

“Oh!” Lady Stark said eyes widening. She reached out her hand towards him. “That's not what I meant. I'm sorry, I had forgotten you would not know quite how Tony and I fit into the world. Of course we would love to help you, but I'm afraid we would be of little use to you.” She gave him a rueful look. “If only you were a young lady. Then you could come out under my aegis and you would be received anywhere; my lineage makes me an unexceptionable chaperone, despite my shocking marriage. But because you are a gentleman it would be up to Tony to sponsor you. He could give you the run of the clubs and the sporting saloons, but no family of good reputation would allow a protégé of the scandalous Lord Stark to pass through their doors. Most likely they would lock up their sons and daughters at your approach and send a footman out to threaten you with a horsewhip.”

Clint blinked a little. “Really?”

“Regrettably, yes.”

Clint risked a smile. He was glad that he could allow himself to like Lady Stark again, even though that meant he might have to feel guilty at deceiving her. He thought of Barney's hand on his shoulder, and their years scraping to make ends meet while people like these lived in luxury, and tried to push the feeling away. “Perhaps you could introduce me to another gentleman who might sponsor me,” he said. “Someone... more respectable than his lordship.”

Lady Stark pressed her lips together, attempting to hide a smile. Her eyes danced with amusement. “I must admit, to my shame, that there are very few respectable gentlemen among my close acquaintance.”

“Oh,” Clint said, crestfallen.

“And even if there were, you would still have no name and no parentage to support you in society. It does seem problematic.”

Clint shrugged, not sure whether he felt disappointed. If he could go back to Barney and say the scheme was impossible then they could use the money to buy themselves a comfortable life, rather than gamble it on the chance of more wealth than they needed.

“But just a moment. Wait while I think.” Lady Stark pondered, frowning. “Perhaps there is a way,” she said after a few moments' thought, “but I doubt you would like it.”

Clint gave her a cautious look. “What is it?”

“I do know one exceedingly respectable gentleman. Our family lands marched together when we were children, and because we are the same age we became good friends. His name is Captain Philip Coulson, and he is recently come back from the Peninsular with an injury that has put him out of the army for good.”

“Do you think he would sponsor me?”

She shook her head. “Even his sponsorship would not be enough. But his name could be your pass to the fashionable world.”

“His name?”

Lady Stark smiled at him, a warm, reassuring smile. “Mr Barton, pardon my asking you such a personal question, but am I right in thinking that your tastes run more to gentlemen than to ladies?”

“Uh,” Clint said. He could feel a bright flush staining his cheeks, and wondered for a horrified moment if she had caught him looking at her husband. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“In that case Captain Coulson could certainly make you a present of his name - were he to bestow his hand on you.”

“Wait,” Clint said, feeling a little lightheaded, “are you talking about _marriage_?”

“I am,” Lady Stark said, as calmly as though she were discussing the weather. “If you wish to move in fashionable circles then marrying into a reputable family is your only option. And marriage need not limit your enjoyment of the world. A married man has more freedom than a single gentleman, and I doubt Captain Coulson would object were you to form other connections, so long as you were discreet.”

 _Other connections_ , Clint thought, overwhelmed. He hadn't expected a fine lady to talk so unashamedly about relations that might be had away from the marriage bed. 

“But why would he ever agree to marry me?” he asked.

She shook her head slightly, her face filling with what he realised was sympathy for the unknown Captain Coulson. “There are family circumstances that would make five thousand pounds extremely welcome to him.”

“He'd marry me for my money,” Clint said. He couldn't quite believe his ears. It seemed impossible that someone would marry him, Clint Barton, the penniless thief, for his money. Lord Stark's wildly extravagant act of gratitude seemed to have turned the world upside down. Clint found bewildered laughter bubbling up in his chest. He made a valiant attempt to stop it - it wasn't polite to laugh in a lady's face - but without much success. He bowed his head, but he knew his shoulders were shaking and Lady Stark wouldn't be fooled for a minute. The whole thing was so ridiculous.

When he was finally able to look up, he found her smiling ruefully at him. “Well, that answers that,” she said. “I suppose it was a little far-fetched. Never mind. It was only an idea. We'll speak no more about it.”

“Wait,” Clint said, biting his lip against the last of his laughter. Ridiculous or not, he owed it to Barney to find out more. “I'm not saying no. It was just unexpected.”

“I think Captain Coulson would find it unexpected too.”

Clint shook his head. The laughter had made him feel easier in his skin, and he found he could talk more naturally. “I still don't see why he would marry me. If he's your friend then you could give him the money he needs.”

“Captain Coulson has his pride, Mr Barton. He won’t accept my charity, but I think he would consider this a fair bargain. He would be doing you a very valuable service in exchange for your fortune.”

“Yes, he would,” Clint said. The full import of what she was suggesting was only just now beginning to settle into his mind. Marriage. He didn't think he could marry a man he'd never met. But then, this wasn't marriage as he imagined it from the strange French fairy tales told by the performers at the Cirque Olympique. This was marriage turned into a simple business transaction. He would be giving this man his money, not any kind of affection. “I suppose it does seem like a fair bargain.”

“Of course you would need your guardian's consent.”

“My guardian?”

“Unless you are already of age? You do not look it.” Her lips twitched. “Mr Barton, are you aware that you need the consent of your parents or guardian if you wish to marry before you're twenty-one?”

“Oh,” Clint said, feeling stupid. “I didn't know.” He had never had a guardian that he knew of, but Barney was the closest thing to a father he'd had since he was eight years old, except for the years when the swordsman had taken an interest in him. “Would my brother serve?”

“If he is your closest relative, yes.”

“He'd let me marry the captain,” Clint said. To put it mildly. Barney would push him into it with both hands, which was why Clint wasn't going to tell him about it until he was quite sure it was a good idea.

“Then there's nothing to stand in your way, if it's really what you want.”

He could tell she was worried for him. For _him_ , when she should be worried for her friends, the people whose secrets he would try to hold for ransom. He didn't know what to say to her after that, his mind too busy racing in circles.

Fortunately just a few seconds later a distraction presented itself. The door opened and Lord Stark walked in. He had scrubbed off every smear of grease and fleck of grime and was dressed in a dark blue coat and white pantaloons, with a crisply starched neckcloth arranged into neat folds around his neck. He swept a bow and straightened up, turning this way and that to display himself from every angle. Clint, faced with such a sight, found it quite impossible to stay wrapped up in his musings. He swallowed hard and tried to keep his eyes on Lord Stark's face.

“Well? Do I pass muster?” Lord Stark asked.

His lady looked him over with an eye as appreciative as Clint's. “I'm astonished,” she said. “You look almost like a gentleman, and I find myself with no complaint to make.” She shot Clint a mischievous smile. “With Mr Barton's permission, I'll honour my promise.”

“Uh,” Clint said unintelligently. Fortunately an answer didn't seem to be expected of him. Lady Stark rose to her feet and slid her arms around her husband's neck in a brief, fond embrace. The pair shared a kiss that, while barely more than a brush of the lips, seemed to leave them both aglow with happiness.

Clint averted his eyes. He knew he had no business to be watching, and he had to fight to ignore the sudden rush of jealousy. He had never kissed anybody like that. He doubted he'd ever felt quite like that in his life.

“Now,” Stark said, disposing himself elegantly on the sofa, “Pepper, what are you plotting?”

“I'm hoping to kill two birds with one stone,” she said, “helping Mr Barton to enter the fashionable world, and giving Phil a way to get his family out of their difficulties.”

“How so?” His brow furrowed. Then both eyebrows shot up towards his hairline as realisation dawned. “You don't mean...?” He gave her a questioning look that turned into a delighted smirk as she nodded. “Positively Machiavellian. So it's wedding bells for Phil at last.”

“I don't think so,” Clint said, flushing. “I've never met Captain Coulson and I don't know much about society, but I know that no gentleman would ever agree to this.”

“But if he did,” Lady Stark said gently, “would you accept his hand?”

This was what Barney wanted him to do, Clint told himself. Barney, who had been so gentle cleaning his wounds after the Swordsman’s beating, even though they had barely spoken in years. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose I would. He's nice, you say? I mean... he's a good man?” He had enough experience of cruel men that he never wanted to put himself in the way of another, but it seemed unfair to catch a decent man in a tangled web of blackmail.

“He's a very good man,” Lady Stark said. “I think this arrangement would benefit you both. Will you give me leave to write to him on your behalf?”

“What will you tell him?”

“The truth. That you're a performing marksman who did Tony a signal service, and you have ambitions to join society.”

Clint felt himself flush yet again. His background was disgraceful enough already to all these gentlefolk, even leaving out his true reason for wanting to become one of them. “Surely if you tell him where I come from he won't even look at me. You said he was respectable.” 

“Insupportably respectable,” Lord Stark put in. “A perfect paragon. Every time we meet I swear I'll wash my hands of him, and yet somehow I always find myself inviting him to my house.” He raised an eyebrow at his wife. “Now why is that, my love?”

“No, Tony, you won't get into my good graces that way,” Lady Stark said, laughing. “You may pretend that you invite Phil to please me, but in fact you like him very much.” She turned back to Clint. “He is entirely respectable, but he has no objection to a lack of respectability in others. I think you might interest him.” She sighed, and added almost under her breath, “Lord knows nobody else has ever done so.”

 

**********

 

The letter had been waiting for Phil at breakfast, tucked under his plate, and reading it he was suddenly very glad the Christmas holidays had come to an end. If his brothers were there they would be clamouring to know its contents, which would be awkward, because even on the third read-through he was still wondering if perhaps the whole thing was an illusion.

After all these years little Lady Virginia still managed to surprise him. People who didn't know her well always thought Stark the shocking one of that pair, but in her own quiet, determined way Pepper could be just as scandalous.

Marriage to a circus performer, for the sum of five thousand pounds. How on earth did she think of these things?

He turned back to the letter, letting his eye fall on paragraphs at random as he tried to come to some sort of conclusion.

 _I will be frank about his origins, Phil,_ she had written, _and I dare say you might find yourself aghast at the pedigree of the man I propose for you, but you refuse to let me help you by more conventional means, so you may blame yourself entirely for what I am driven to. He was orphaned at a young age and thrown on the parish in some dismal part of London, and ran off with his elder brother rather than face the workhouse. By some means they found themselves caught up in the workings of Astley's Amphitheatre, where the elder Mr Barton found work as a stable hand and the younger caught the notice of one of the performers and was apprenticed to become a trick archer. I can myself attest to his marksmanship._

There was a story behind that, Phil knew. When he next saw Pepper he would make her tell him the nature of this signal service that Stark had rewarded the archer so richly for.

He scanned further down the page. If this were to be remotely plausible, Barton's past was not nearly as important as his present manner. With the best will in the world, there was no way Phil could foist a man on society if he talked like a cockney fishmonger and licked gravy from his fingers at table.

_I think you would not find it a hardship to have him in your house. From the little I know of him he seems to be kind and brave, as well as ornamental. As for introducing him to society, I don't think he would cause you embarrassment. He lacks polish but he doesn't speak like a commoner and he has been educated to a fair degree._

Well, that was more promising than it might be. He had no idea how a London guttersnipe could have obtained an accent that would be acceptable in a lady's drawing room, but he could only take Pepper at her word.

_He is perhaps eighteen or nineteen, which you and I, at eight-and-twenty, cannot help but think of as very young. I think he has seen a lot in those years, and it has made him more mature than one might expect, aside from this somewhat boyish ambition to experience the unknown world of ton parties and fashionable life._

Eighteen, Phil thought, dropping his head into his hands.

He shouldn't even consider it. But at the moment his only other option was to take the boys out of Eton and remove Julia from her seminary and the studies she was constantly enthusing about in her letters to him. The estate was already heavily mortgaged, and the interest would be crippling if he couldn't make the farms and the rents more profitable. Five thousand pounds was no vast fortune but it was a respectable portion. It would discharge the most pressing of the family's debts and leave him with something extra to feed back into improvements. Used carefully, it was certainly enough for him to turn the situation around. And the price he would pay? Only to provide a home for a young man, guide him in the rules of the polite world and squire him to a few parties until he found his feet.

Put like that it didn't seem so onerous.

Phil was past the age where men dreamed of romance. He had no real expectation of falling in love, and considering his family's financial difficulties and his own physical weakness - he glanced down at the cane propped up against a neighbouring chair - he could no longer be thought of as a good catch for any gentleman. Even if he did find someone he wished to share his life with, his suit would not be well received.

***

Phil's stepmother had been in the last days of her final illness when he was called up to join Field Marshal Wellesley in Portugal. She had died soon after, and Phil was too caught up by the thought of the new commission waiting for him to take more than a few days to attend the funeral. He had never been close to her - he was already at Eton when she married his father, and his holidays had been much taken up with invitations to visit friends, or time spent with Pepper and her family. By the time he went up to Cambridge he had more of a reason to come home – Julia, his half-sister, had grown into a sweet child of five and he was more than a little besotted with her. He might have got to know his stepmother better then, were it not for the difficult birth of her twin sons which had ruined her health for good. She was a ghost in the house after that, keeping to her rooms and taking her meals on a tray, barely strong enough to walk to the nursery and see her children. Phil, in all of his comings and goings, almost forgot she was there at all.

He hadn't known how much his father had loved her until he read how the man had died, of drink and grief under a mountain of gambling debts, while Phil himself was lying unconscious in a hospital in Belgium.

The nurses had kept the letter from him until he was strong enough to sit up and read it, by which time the missive from the lawyers had been joined by one from Julia, who had then been just about to turn fifteen. She wrote with a forced cheerfulness about how much she looked forward to seeing him when he was well enough to come home, and that he should not let anyone tease him about family business but just rest and build up his strength. There was nothing to worry about, she told him. All he had to do was get well.

The lawyers' letter, and the other similar ones that followed it, were of quite a different tone.

It seemed that the elder Mr Coulson's gaming habit had not entirely driven the family to ruin, but Phil got the strong impression that if his father had managed to cling to life for a few more months there would have been no saving the situation. As it was, the Coulson fortune had dwindled and any income had all but vanished. The estates were mortgaged to the hilt, the funds depleted, and his father’s hunters and Phil’s own beloved bay mare sold. Even allowing for Phil's army pension there was barely enough to cover the interest on the mortgages and the wages for the family servants.

To Phil, convalescing, exhausted and in pain, the difficulties seemed insurmountable. 

His homecoming, two months later, had been muted. Julia was there to greet him when he stepped out of the carriage, and he could only stare at her for a moment, thinking how much she'd grown and how pale and worried she looked. And then she'd given a little sob and he'd realised how he must appear to her, with his cane and his faltering hands, breathless from the short walk up the steps to the house.

She'd smiled at him through her tears and reached out her hands to him, guiding him into the library and settling him into a chair, pulling up a footstool so she could sit at his side and talk to him for the little while before he became so weary he had to struggle his way to bed, leaning on the arm of his father's valet. He guessed that as soon as he was gone she would have run to the kitchens as she used to when she was a little girl, to indulge in a burst of tears on old Mrs Parker’s shoulder. She had nobody but the housekeeper to cry to. No mother, no father, no governess or companion, because a wage could not be paid. No brother strong enough to support her.

Phil hated to be weak. For a man who had always been physically active the restrictions of his injuries were almost insupportable. In the following weeks he spent every waking moment struggling to keep his temper in check, and still managed to make his servants flinch and his sister cry on more than one occasion. He didn’t deserve the kindness and patience they showed him, and even the kindness itself chafed at him.

“I won’t ask you how you are,” Steve had said once, having ridden over from the hall where he was staying as a guest of Pepper’s brother, “because you’ll only bite my head off, so I suppose we had best talk about the weather. Or are you out of temper with that as well?”

Phil had, in fact, been angry with the summer sunshine for making the room stifling and for shining so invitingly over the countryside he couldn’t enjoy, but he was forced to smile. “I’m sorry. I’m being a bear. I know it, you don’t have to remind me.”

“You have every right to snarl and snap a little,” Steve said good-naturedly. “You’ll come about. Give it time.”

It was good advice. Slowly, things had improved, enough that when Steve turned up at the door white and shaking, clutching a letter signed _James Barnes_ , Phil was able to do some comforting of his own.

Julia went back to school. Phil grew strong enough to get through his days without needing to lie down every few hours. He met up with his old friends and tried to find his way back to the person he used to be, as impossible as it might seem.

He would never walk comfortably again. His leg would always be twisted. The pain in his chest might ease in time, but for now the ache of it kept him awake at night and the scar was often reddened and hot to the touch.

And all the time the funds he had to play with kept dropping lower and lower.

***

Stark Manor was some thirty miles distant, across the border into Surrey. It wasn’t an onerous journey, and Phil was pleased to find the he was not too tired when he descended the steps of his travelling coach. He submitted to being hugged and kissed by Pepper and quizzed on his sister’s health and his brothers’ latest mischief, but finally crossed his arms, rolled his eyes and demanded that she stop chattering and act like a sensible woman.

She laughed. “And here I was trying to put you at your ease. I’m sorry, Phil. We can deal with business first if you prefer, though I must have you to myself to gossip later on. Is that agreed?

“Agreed.”

“Then we will go and spy on Mr Barton for a few moments.” She touched his elbow, looking into his face. “My dear, you don’t need to be nervous. I promise you will like him.”

They set off across the frosted lawns, her ladyship keeping pace with him. “There,” she said as they rounded the corner of the house, gesturing towards the stables where her husband was standing, deep in conversation with a fair, sturdily built young man in a very ill-fitting jacket.

Phil frowned. So this was Mr Clint Barton. Automatically lightening his halting steps, he moved closer to find a better vantage point.

His prospective spouse was indeed very young. Young and vital, Phil thought, wishing he could go back to the days when he could trust his body to do its work, without worrying about the damage it had taken. Mr Barton looked like the type of boy who would love to ride and box and fence, and would have had ambitions to join the Corinthian set had he been born into polite society. Quite aside from his physicality there was something extremely attractive about him. His features weren't classically handsome, but he had a pleasant, open face with a ready smile and the most arresting pair of eyes Phil had ever seen.

Phil sighed, well aware that all Mr Barton would see when looking at him was a sickly, rather dull gentleman with a limp and no particular good looks or address. No, not even that. All he would see was a means to an end. And that was all Phil should see too. He should look at young Mr Barton and see new drainage for his fields and good schooling for his sister and brothers, and a smile on the face of his man of business as they poured over much healthier-looking ledgers.

***

Lord Stark did not attend the introduction, to Phil’s great relief. Although his lordship had proved his worth by making Pepper so happy, he was undeniably exhausting, and his sly, bawdy comments and teasing were more than Phil could have stood. Instead it was just her ladyship, all charm and tact, ushering in the overgrown boy.

“Mr Barton, this is the Captain Coulson of whom I was telling you.”

“Mr Barton,” Phil said. He bowed carefully, determined that this would not be one of the rare times he forgot his infirmities and had to wince at the pressure on his leg and the pull at his scars.

When he straightened he found himself being regarded with wary surprise for a good few seconds before Barton belatedly bowed in return. “Captain Coulson,” he said, in voice that was as refined as Pepper had reported, and as stilted as Phil felt. “It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.”

“If you will excuse me,” Pepper said, “I think the housekeeper wishes to consult with me on some matter of linens and curtains, so I will leave you to discuss the business that concerns you both.” She gave them a polite smile and turned to leave. Phil tried very hard not to glare at her retreating back.

“So,” Barton said, “we should talk.”

His uncertain expression and flushed cheeks, gave the impression that he was embarrassed and a little shy. It was not what Phil had been expecting. He had assumed that a boy who was mad to try town life would be the gregarious, confident sort who was naturally drawn to gaiety.

“Indeed we should,” Phil said. He could hear the stiffness in his tone and knew he was coming across just as he had feared he would. 

“Shall we sit?” Barton said, very obviously looking at Phil's leg and cane, and then catching himself at it and flushing still further.

Phil squashed a childish impulse to say that he preferred to stand. He was determinedly training himself out of his pride, so as to save himself a lifetime of leg cramps, and save his friends from the sight of him pokering up over every imagined sign of solicitude. Instead he took one of the comfortable chairs by the library fireplace, easing himself down into it as Barton took the other.

“Her ladyship intimated that you were in the market for a marriage of convenience,” Phil said, dispensing with the pleasantries which would only have made them both more uncomfortable.

As he had expected, the boy gave a poorly-hidden sigh of relief. “Exactly so, sir,” he said, still as refined as you please, or even a little more than was pleasing. He was as taut as a bowstring, Phil could see, and as worried about making a mistake as Phil was about jolting his injuries and shaming himself with a noise of pain. It gave him some sense of fellow feeling towards his prospective spouse.

“I was hoping to find an introduction to the fashionable world,” Barton said. “I have a fair sum to act as a dowry, as her ladyship will have told you, and I would be willing to sign it over to you if we were to wed. I would place no claim on your estate were we to divorce, and I hope you would countenance an agreement whereby you would return to me my dowry were I to be given any extreme cause to leave.”

 _Whereby_ , Phil thought, mildly amused. “Well said,” he said.

Barton's eyes showed the briefest flash of embarrassed anger. Phil judged that he was intelligent enough to know when he was being teased, and young enough to be prickly about it. But the flash was gone as quickly as it had come.

“I've been rehearsing it this past week,” Barton said.

Phil was surprised into a laugh. Barton smiled awkwardly back at him.

“You're wise to be prepared,” Phil said. “I've spoken to my lawyer about the matter, and it sounds as though we'll be able to come to an agreement of terms once we all sit down together. But before it comes to that we should discuss practicalities.”

It was the smile that had brought Phil to a decision, in a single moment. There was still an immense amount of detail to be thrashed out, and a hundred points of contention that might prove to be unresolvable, but he found himself thinking, _I can do this_.

***

Who to tell? That was the question troubling Phil’s mind as he took his coffee in the breakfast room some two weeks later.

It was not common knowledge that the Coulson family was in such poor financial straits, and he would prefer to keep it that way.

The cover story he and Pepper had thrashed out was convincing enough. They would give out that Barton was the son of a country parson, himself the younger son of the local squire in some desperately out-of-the-way part of Yorkshire that nobody would have any cause to visit. The family was well known to the Coulsons through some distant connection, of good stock, unmistakably genteel, but much out of the world. Barton, the eldest son, had been visiting friends in Kent and had naturally taken the opportunity to visit Phil. And equally naturally, Phil had fallen in love. That was perhaps the most believable part of the tale. Nobody who saw Barton’s pretty eyes and strong arms would wonder at it.

Julia would need to know about the financial side of the matter. But could he afford to tell anyone – even Steve – of Barton’s real background? If that were to become known the scandal of the imposture would be talked of for years to come, and Julia and the boys would suffer the consequences. The fewer people who knew, the better. Pepper could be trusted to the ends of the earth, and Stark, Phil had to admit, was one of the finest minds in the _ton_ and far too intelligent to let slip any secret by accident. Those two were safe. But Julia was fifteen and inclined to chatter. She could not be told any more than that her brother was marrying to save the family fortune. Even that was sure to be a bone of contention. She had romantic notions, and still hoped for Phil to fall in love.

Steve was the question. Phil wished he could have someone to talk to and a helping hand to guide an inexperienced boy through the shoals of the polite world, but Steve was straightforward and very much inclined to blush over a direct lie. It seemed unfair to subject him to this deception.

No, Phil decided. He could not risk it.

Going to his study, he unlocked his desk and found paper and ink.

_My dear Steve,_

He thought for a moment, and then penned a couple of polite paragraphs asking after Steve’s friend and responding to a point of discussion about what the future held now that they were no longer at war with France.

Then, continuing:

_You will be glad to know that I have found a solution to my family’s difficulties. The Gazette will soon carry an announcement of my marriage to Mr Clinton Barton of Yorkshire – and please forgive me for not asking you to stand beside me at my wedding, you know you would be my choice were the matter not so rushed._

He gave the country parson story, wincing slightly as he wrote down the lies.

_To you, I can admit that shared affection is not the main reason for this decision. He has some reasonable inheritance from an uncle, and by marriage to me he hopes to increase the family connections, and therefore the prospects of finding good husbands for his younger sisters._

_I know I need not ask you to be discreet in this matter, for I would not have the rumours of my financial circumstances confirmed. And please do not think that I am making any particular sacrifice. He is very beautiful, as you will see if I can ever winkle you out from your rustication to re-join the world in London, and very pleasant. I look forward to presenting him to you, and would enlist your help in making his introduction to society a happy one._

_Yours, as ever,_

_Phil_

He sanded the letter, dusted it off, and sealed it to go into the post, sighing deeply.

 

**********

 

To Clint, the whole thing happened shockingly fast. What with Barney coaching him on what to say to the lawyers, the purchase of an almost entirely new wardrobe, several visits to the Stark Manor where her ladyship took great delight in teaching him the steps of the fashionable dances and his lordship took great delight in watching, and all the other various preparations, he was so busy that his wedding day dawned almost before he knew it.

He woke with a sick feeling of panic in the pit of his stomach. Tonight he would sleep in the Coulson townhouse. He would be a married man, and married he would stay until Barney said otherwise.

The wedding was in London in the late afternoon, giving them time to make the journey from Guildford the same day, and for Clint to wash and dress. Captain Coulson met them at the steps to the church with Lord and Lady Stark, looking quietly elegant, leaning part of his weight on a silver-handled cane. He greeted Clint with a handshake and a few polite words before leading him inside.

It was a private ceremony, and the three witnesses all seemed to enjoy it far more than the principles. Barney watched in satisfaction, saying nothing and blending easily into the background, an unmemorable face, unmemorable clothes, nothing about him that would serve to identify him later. Lady Stark made a play of dabbing at her eyes, while his lordship kept up a commentary to her in an extremely distracting undertone that Clint couldn’t quite make out. The unfortunate reverend looked torn between the desire to shush him and the equally intense desire to avoid exchanging a single word with so disreputable a person.

Clint somehow stammered his way through his lines, envying Captain Coulson's poise and calm. From his manner one might think that Coulson had been married a dozen times or more and no longer thought anything of it. Clint himself could barely hear the pronouncement that they were wed over the rush of blood in his ears, and he certainly missed the permission to kiss, until Captain Coulson took his hand and bestowed a chaste salute on his cheek.

***

Barney departed after the ceremony, leaving Clint to one of the most bewildering evenings he’d ever spent. London was his birthplace, but he’d never seen this side of it before. This London wasn’t noise and smells and the throng of humanity. It was gilt and candles and velvet, all laid out just for him.

Lady Stark had planned several distractions to save Clint the awkwardness of a wedding night spent in stilted conversation with his groom. The four of them took a lavish dinner at a fine hotel, with plenty of wine to keep the conversation flowing. Clint talked with her ladyship and his lordship for the most part, and occasionally glanced up to find Captain Coulson watching him with an unreadable expression. 

The captain was not as quiet or as staid as Clint had expected him to be. A greater part of the second course was taken up with a sharp, intense argument between him and Lord Stark on the practicality of steam power for use in war. Stark was incisive, Coulson implacable, and both of them quite ruthless, rarely finding any point of agreement. When the argument ended, however, they each appeared in complete charity with the other and turned back to their dinner companions with the best will in the world. 

And then Coulson engaged Clint in conversation and drew him into a general discussion of the play they would see after they dined, smiling civilly all the while, unfailingly polite and pleasant, and as impersonal as one of the hotel footmen.

***

The play was a satire and enjoyable enough. It certainly whiled away the evening, and after a bite of supper at the theatre after the performance they could fairly say that the day was over. Clint took his leave of Lord and Lady Stark and allowed Captain Coulson to conduct him to a hackney carriage. 

“Well, we came through that successfully,” Captain Coulson said once they were installed, with the ghost of a smile. “Welcome to London, Mr Barton. I trust the city is all you had hoped for?”

“Yes,” Clint said. He was guiltily aware that he had slipped out of character. He ought to have been gazing around starry-eyed at the trappings of his new life, dreaming of the all the fine gaiety and bright society that he was soon to enjoy. Instead he could only stare out at the streetlights and the frosted cobbles and wonder what on earth his brother had been thinking.

“Tomorrow perhaps you would like to ride with me in the park, and then look in at Almack’s in the evening,” Coulson said.

Tomorrow, Clint reflected, would be his introduction to the people whose secrets he might unearth. He supposed he had to meet them somewhere.

“I’ve heard of Almack’s,” he said. “Isn’t it what they call the Marriage Mart?”

“It is. A place where mothers parade their unmarried sons and daughters before the world,” Coulson said. His lip curled slightly in amusement. “Fortunately the two of us will now be safe from their attentions.” He raised his left hand, where the wedding ring was visible in the glow from the carriage lanterns. “And if you are approved by the patronesses of Almack’s you’ll find yourself invited to balls and soirees where you may meet all of London.”

“That sounds perfect,” Clint said with a sinking heart. Then, his heart sinking still further, he realised what he was letting himself in for. “Should it be tomorrow? I… I think I should find my feet a little first, or perhaps I would embarrass you.”

Coulson smiled. Though it was too dim in the carriage to see properly, Clint thought he looked kind. “I can see nothing to embarrass me. You played your part to perfection tonight – a young country gentleman, uncertain but by no means ungenteel. I’ll wager that the patronesses will be charmed by you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Clint said. He tried to swallow through a suddenly dry mouth. 

“Phil,” Coulson said.

“Beg pardon?”

“Call me Phil. As my husband you have leave to use my name.”

“Is it usual to do so?” Clint said. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He could just about imagine the captain as a Philip, but emphatically not a Phil.

“You could call me Captain Coulson and nobody would think it odd in you. But I would prefer it if you didn’t.”

“Then I won’t,” Clint said. It seemed like a small thing to ask, although a strange one. “And you should call me Clint.”

Coulson nodded. “Thank you.” He didn’t use Clint’s name, though, and Clint didn’t use his, and they sat the rest of the drive in silence.

***

Clint had never planned to be a virgin on his wedding night. He had certainly not expected that he would go to bed on his wedding night with the prospect of remaining a virgin the next morning.

More than once in their travels men had offered good money to enjoy a few hours with him, but that was one thing Barney wouldn’t countenance. The Barton brothers might lie and cheat and steal, but Clint's body had always been his own to do with only as he pleased. Or not do, as it had turned out. If they had stayed with the circus after the Swordsman's betrayal there would have been boys aplenty for him to choose from, but instead he and Barney were constantly on the move and constantly busy, and he had few chances to meet anyone he would have enjoyed spending the night with. His experience was limited to few awkward, mostly-clothed fumblings with a stable boy at an inn they'd stayed at in Le Havre, and an aborted attempt to put his mouth on a much older man, who had seemed attractive out in the taproom of the tavern but in close quarters had smelled strongly of sour wine and old sweat. Clint's nerve had broken and he'd bolted before the man's distended cock touched his lips.

What would it be like to be with his new husband, he wondered idly as he lay between the soft, well-aired sheets in his new bedchamber. Captain Coulson was handsome, certainly, even though he was pale and much too thin. His eyes were full of shifting colours and he had broad shoulders and long, nimble fingers. But he seemed so calm and so distant that Clint couldn't even imagine him in his shirtsleeves, much less stripped of his breeches, naked and aroused.

 _Phil,_ he thought to himself, trying to reconcile the name with the man. Experimentally he cobbled together the best mental image he could and slid his hand down beneath the sheets. He stroked himself, but with too many thoughts running through his head and only the vague picture for his mind to focus on he couldn't find much pleasure in it. Eventually he gave up and lay tossing restlessly until it became obvious that he wouldn't sleep without some kind of release. He slid his hand down again and this time allowed himself to picture Lord Stark in his fine clothes, turning this way and that to display his assets to his wife. That was better. It felt good to touch himself and think of it, to stroke his cock until it was stiff and throbbing. He allowed himself to slip into the fantasy that Lady Stark might smile wickedly at him and slip out of the door, and Tony - _Tony_ \- would prowl across the room, dropping his hands to undo the fall of his trousers and reveal his proudly jutting cock. And then they would meet and kiss fiercely, and Tony would guide Clint's hand down, showing him how best to touch, hissing with pleasure while he busied himself with Clint’s buttons. Then they would stumble to the couch, kissing all the while, and Tony would push Clint down onto the cushions and climb on top of him so they could thrust against one another, each movement a delicious mounting friction until... Oh. _Oh._

Clint came back to himself, lying in a tangle of blankets with come cooling on his stomach, breathing roughly, pink with embarrassment. Groping for a handkerchief to clean himself up he cursed under his breath and prayed to whoever might be listening that the Starks would not pay him a visit in the morning. He wouldn't be able to look either of them in the eye.

 

**********

 

“A sweet child,” Lady Castlereagh told Phil from her seat in state at the side of the assembly room. “You are to be congratulated, Philip.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Phil said.

The old harridan had grilled Clint for a solid five minutes, taking quiet and ruthless judgement of his background and parentage. Now Clint had escaped to the other side of the room and it was Phil’s turn to face the patroness of Almack’s. Fortunately Clint’s invented life story seemed to have stood up to scrutiny, and she was condescending to be graciously pleased.

“Such becoming modesty. Though it is to be expected from a parson’s son.”

It was also to be expected from a boy who was almost too nervous to utter a word, Phil reflected. Sometimes it seemed to him almost as though Clint really was entering society to increase the prospects of a parcel of sisters – doing his duty with good grace, but not entirely of his own volition.

Still, anyone would be nervous at their first Assembly, especially when faced with the redoubtable Lady Castlereagh. He glanced across the room. Clint had been drawn into speech with a party of young bucks and seemed much more at ease, smiling his attractive smile as he listened to their talk, and occasionally throwing in a comment himself.

Lady Castlereagh coughed meaningfully.

Phil started, then berated himself for his carelessness. It was not like him to let his attention wander from a conversation.

“Your pardon, ma’am, I was distracted.”

“Hmph. Well, I will allow that you have reason,” she told him. “Get back to him, then, but I advise you not to become one of those men who cleaves to his husband’s side.”

“Emphatically not, ma’am,” Phil said, and made his escape.

Once he was away from her intense eyes he stood uncertainly at the side of the room for a moment, wondering whether to approach Clint. It was his duty to take his husband about and introduce him, but Clint seemed to be looking after himself and Phil had no desire to detract from his enjoyment of the evening by interrupting.

Just as he had decided to turn away and find his own amusements he caught sight of a tall, broad and astonishingly handsome figure crossing the room towards him.

Steve Rogers – now Captain Rogers - had been in the year below him at Eton, and the subject of a youthful crush that had, for a couple of extremely embarrassing years, verged on worship. Fortunately time, experience and years of serving together had dulled Phil’s adoration to fondness. Steve was now one of his best friends, a specimen of human perfection, but not one that Phil had any particular desire to ravish. 

“Steve,” he said, as they met in the clear space behind the huddles of ladies and gentlemen watching the dancing, “it’s so good to see you.”

“And you, Phil,” Steve said warmly, clasping his hand. “You’re well, I hope?”

“Perfectly, though I must own a little caught up in unusual circumstances.”

“So I am to congratulate you, then?”

Phil met Steve’s wry eyes and was coaxed into a rueful smile. “Yes, I was married yesterday. Had I known you were in town I would have invited you.”

“I wasn’t. I arrived today, and curiosity drew me here at once in hope of meeting you.”

“In hope of gawking at my new husband, you mean.”

“Exactly,” Steve said, unabashed, “so you must present him to me instantly, and then I can go home and sleep off my journey before I’m caught by a gaggle of matchmaking Mamas. I swear, I can feel them hovering at my shoulder already.”

“They’re not matchmaking,” Phil said. He dropped his voice. “None of them would present their daughters to you, for fear of losing the chance of bedding you themselves.”

Steve rolled his eyes and blushed. “I must own, there are one or two whose motives I suspect. Come, stop discussing matters that are quite unsuitable for these hallowed halls and bring me to your very beautiful, very pleasant young man.”

Phil glanced around, located Clint, still in conversation with the group of young men, and drew Steve in the appropriate direction. Clint glanced up as they approached and immediately excused himself from his companions. His smile slipped as he came towards them. He bit his lip and looked at Phil shyly, reacquiring some of his obvious nervousness. Then he caught sight of Steve, and the smile vanished altogether. His jaw dropped slightly.

Phil sighed. First Stark, now Steve. If only his friends weren’t quite so beautiful life would be infinitely easier. He would have to warn Clint to hide his various attractions for fear of spiteful gossips spreading rumours. It was a conversation that would likely be painfully awkward for them both.

“Clint,” he said wearily, “this is Captain Steven Rogers, a good friend of mine.”

Clint’s eyes flicked down and back up. “How do you do, sir,” he said in a slightly choked voice.

“How do you do,” Steve said. He was quite oblivious of the impression he’d caused, and for once Phil felt no desire to roast him for it. “I hear you stood up to our patronesses with staunch bravery just now. You’ll have to give me the benefit of your advice on how to manage them. Lady Castlereagh has me constantly quaking in my boots.”

Steve had the gift of easy conversation, and Clint hung on every word with wide, worshipful eyes, chattering away in response with the unaffected insouciance that Phil was starting to become familiar with. Not surprisingly, it had never yet been directed at him.

Phil turned away to scan the crowd. Almack’s had always bored him, and was duller still now he was unable to dance, but there were enough of his friends present that he thought he could pass the time quite pleasantly. Clint could safely be left in Steve’s charge, which left him free to buttonhole Jasper to beg an invitation for Clint to one of his card parties, and then hear Maria’s wry tales of the latest young fool who had been writing odes to her beauty.

By the time Steve rejoined him his leg was cramping and his shoulder aching from leaning so much on his cane, but he was interested enough in what Steve had to say that he could put the discomfort out of his mind. 

“I like him,” Steve said. “Very much. He’ll make friends fast, I think. I left him demonstrating fencing moves with the Parker boy, though from the look in the aunt’s eye both of them are due for a firm scolding about their deportment very soon. Miss Drew and Miss Morse have already demanded that he pay them morning calls, and I think he’s engaged to visit with Miss Storm and her brother as well.”

“Johnny Storm and Peter Parker,” Phil said. “Steve, have I offended you somehow? I can think of no other reason why you would introduce my husband to the two wildest young idiots in London.”

Steve laughed. “Indeed, I’m sorry for it. But he is more serious than they. He may serve to keep them in check.”

“Serious? He’s just shy.”

“I’m not so sure. He seems much older than he has any right to be.”

There was nothing Phil could say to that. Certainly Clint had seen much more of the world than either Mr Parker or Mr Storm, and he and probably spent most of his time in the harder parts of it. “I’m glad you like him,” he said. “We are to ride in the park tomorrow morning. Do you care to join us?”

“I would be glad to. And now I think you should take him home. He’s tired after all the excitement.”

Phil couldn’t suppress a flicker of annoyance. Steve was obviously offering him an unsubtle excuse to take his aching leg to bed. He gave a tight smile. “Thank you. I’ll see if he’s ready to leave.”

Once he had discovered the location of his errant husband he took a moment to wonder if Steve’s concern had truly been for the boy, rather than for Phil himself. Clint’s smile was a little dulled and he had moved away from the crowds and candles and music. His companion, a well-known flirt, was doing most of the talking while Clint nodded politely along. In the circumstances Phil felt absolutely no compunction in interrupting the tête-à-tête and sending the flirtatious young man about his business with a few well-chosen words.

He turned back to Clint to encounter an expression of warming gratitude.

“I wanted to get away from the crush, but he followed me and kept paying me compliments,” Clint said, “and I didn’t know how to be rid of him without seeming rude. From what I’ve been told, it’s not polite to punch someone at Almack’s.” He shot a glare at the man’s retreating back, as though he would have been perfectly willing to do so.

“There are ways,” Phil said, chuckling. “If it’s a gentleman, you can tell him you’re a little tired and ask him to escort you back to your husband. If you phrase it carefully there can be no offense, because you give him an opportunity to offer you his arm and impress you with his chivalry. For a lady you ask if she would like refreshment, and leave her with another amusing gentleman while you procure it. Hopefully by the time you return she will be so deep in conversation that she won’t mind you taking yourself off elsewhere.”

“You make it sound very simple,” Clint said.

Phil shrugged. “It is very simple.”

“Well,” Clint said, seemingly unsure what else to say, “thank you. I’m grateful.”

***

They took a hackney carriage home. Not a pleasant end to a long evening, Phil found. The jolting of the carriage over the cobbles exacerbated his every ache and had him biting his lip to keep himself from hissing at the discomfort. As they rounded a corner he shifted in his seat, trying to find an easier position. To his annoyance, Clint’s sharp eyes caught the movement.

“Is your leg paining you?” he asked, concerned.

“No,” Phil said shortly.

“You stood too long.”

“I’ll judge that for myself, if you please,” Phil snapped.

Clint flinched, the jerky, defensive movement of a boy who’d been struck too often, but there was no fear in his eyes. There was just surprise that quickly turned into a glare, astonishingly reminiscent of Julia when she was a little girl. That expression of glowering resentment was exactly the one she’d worn when she received a rebuke that she didn’t think she deserved. She’d been perfectly capable of sulking for days until the person who had wronged her apologised.

Phil felt his irritation melt.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “In truth, it does ache.”

“I could rub it for you.”

“I beg your pardon?” Phil said.

“I used to do it for the acrobats in the circus. It helps the muscles to relax. It would lessen the pain and make it easier for you to sleep.”

He said it as though it were an entirely natural thing to do. Phil, mildly incredulous, wondered if he needed to warn him that in the general way of things it was socially unacceptable to rub the legs of other gentlemen. “Thank you, it’s a kind thought,” he said, “but I think not.”

***

When Phil had a job to do he did it well. Within a week the mantelpiece in the breakfast room was blossoming with invitations, and many fashionable ladies and gentlemen would bow or pause for a greeting when they passed Clint in the park. Clint’s name was down for White’s and one or two other clubs, and he had spent an afternoon at Gentleman Jim’s boxing saloon in the company of Johnny Storm, where, Phil learned from Jasper, he had stripped to advantage but appeared quite inexperienced in the art of boxing.

The inexperience was entirely true. “I know how to fight,” Clint had said to Phil after he’d accepted the invitation, “but I think perhaps it’s not the same.”

“Definitely not,” Phil said, wincing at the thought of Clint taking the brawling tactics of the London streets into a gentleman’s establishment. “I advise that you do your best to appear a complete novice, though even a country youth would know the rules of the game. I had better show you.”

He had once been an excellent boxer. If things had been different he would have stripped off his shirt and made Clint spar with him. As it was, he had to content himself with demonstrating the stance and the hits and tweaking Clint’s sturdy body into position, feeling a mixture of desire and sharp jealousy at the sensation of those strong muscles moving under his hands.

He was out of sorts for the rest of the day and snappish in the evening when Clint tried to tell him about the day’s adventure. It won himself another of those hurt, resentful looks. This time he didn’t know how to explain. He certainly didn’t know how to apologise.

He had even less wish to apologise when Jasper remarked to him that his husband had an impressive knowledge of thieves’ cant, the language used by criminals that high-born men liked to mimic in the sporting saloons.

“Unusual, in a country vicar’s son,” Jasper said. “It’s made him something of a favourite among the young men there. He tried to make young Parker lose his temper by calling him a buttock and file, and the match had to be stopped while he explained what it meant.”

Phil, who knew very well what it meant, didn’t know whether to be irritated or to wish he’d been present to hear Clint stammer his way through that particular explanation.

As one week became two, and then three, things grew easier. While he made sure to ride out with Clint every fine morning for the look of the thing and squire him to such parties that they should both attend, he had no trouble heeding Lady Castlereagh’s warning. By no means did he cleave to his husband’s side. In fact, it seemed sometimes as though he barely saw Clint from one day to the next. Even when they rode together Clint would trot and canter around the paths of Hyde Park, whereas Phil out of necessity kept his mount to a sedate walk and watched. He always spent the first few minutes of the ride bitterly jealous, and then found himself smiling at the simple delight Clint took in his horse and his freedom, yearning for that freedom himself, but not jealous. Just… wanting.

While Clint sought out company and amusements, Phil had much to occupy his mind. He couldn’t visit his estates while his husband was still so new to society, but there was much business that could be conducted from London, and he was determined that the five thousand pounds should be laid out to best advantage, both in improvements that would become profitable quickly and in plans for the more distant future. 

_It’s worth it_ , he told himself, when the simple fact of Clint’s presence across the breakfast table made something painful and unfamiliar tighten in his chest. He was doing this for the family. For Julia.

 

**********

 

The note, which had arrive with the morning post, simply said: “Well?”

 _Well what?_ Clint thought, looking angrily at his brother’s scrawl. Well nothing. It was too soon. He barely knew a handful of people. He couldn’t begin to tell who might be hiding a secret.

But the word looked back at him, accusing, and guilt settled in his stomach.

He had done nothing. Although he might claim that he was too caught up in the difficulties of navigating this new world, he knew it wasn’t true. The truth was that, despite the fact that there were few places to shoot and none where he could do so without being seen, he was beginning to enjoy London life.

The Quality were not so bad. Plenty were haughty or condescending or puffed up in their own consequence, but there were just as many who were as friendly and generous as Lady Stark. Johnny Storm was, to Clint’s mind, a reckless idiot, and Peter Parker was astonishingly naïve, but they had welcomed him warmly and invited him everywhere. Captain Coulson’s friends were nice too. Mr Sitwell and Miss Hill were funny and wry and knowing, and Captain Rogers made Clint’s knees go weak whenever he walked into the room.

Coulson himself was different. He intrigued Clint, but he was so hard to read. Sometimes he retreated behind an impenetrable wall, becoming almost a puppet of a man, polite and unapproachable, those seascape eyes gone blank. But then he smiled, and all the humour and light came back into his face. Besides, however changeable his moods might be he was always dependable. When Clint needed anything he knew he only had to ask.

In general Clint was content. But his brother was out there. Waiting. Relying on him.

Gathering his resolve, Clint stood up, tossed the note into the fire and went to shrug into his coat. He was due in Curzon street to call on Miss Morse. She liked to gossip, and if he nudged the conversation down the right tracks he might unearth something of value. And that evening would be Lord Richards’s ball, where he might take the chance to use his real skills.

***

It was easier than he had expected – almost laughably easy – to gain access to his lordship’s papers. He slipped away from the party without the slightest trouble, avoided the overworked servants and found that the study was far enough from the bustle that he could even risk lighting the candles. The lock on the desk held no challenge for him, and soon he had his hands on bundles of letters and notes.

All of them, sadly, involving some arcane matters of science, without the slightest hint of scandal.

Clint put them back where he had found them, shrugging to himself. He couldn’t expect such good luck as to strike gold on his first attempt. But at least he knew that it was easy to take advantage of a party invitation to do a little poking around. He was in an excellent position to uncover secrets.

It was a little irritating just how right Barney had been.

The nerve-racking part of the scheme was sneaking back into the ballroom and hoping that he had not been missed. Captain Coulson, dressed as neatly and flawlessly as ever in his eveningwear, was acting as his escort, but as usual had left him to his own devices as soon as they’d greeted their hostess. Clint couldn’t have been missing for more than a half hour, and he doubted the captain would have looked for him in that time. He probably wouldn’t look for him until he wished to leave, Clint thought. Useful though that might be for his purposes, he did find himself sometimes feeling a little alone at these parties.

He was safely mingling with the crowds, sipping wine, nodding to his acquaintances and offering respectful greetings to the matrons and older gentlemen, when he heard Captain Rogers saying his name. He turned, trying to suppress both the awareness of his own guilt and the blush that always threatened to creep to his cheeks at that particular voice.

He had to suppress a shiver too, as Captain Rogers’s hand fell warm and friendly on his shoulder.

“Clint, I want you to meet a friend of mine,” he said. “This is Lieutenant James Barnes.”

Clint turned to give yet another bow and another polite greeting, and found himself face to face with the Winter Soldier.

He nearly dropped his glass. It was only by a miracle that he managed to suppress his first instinct, which was to give an unmannerly yell and run for the exit.

 _The Winter Soldier,_ the reason many of the circus folk looked askance at Clint, because Clint was friends with Natasha Romanoff, and where Natasha went, _he_ followed. He would come to the circus sometimes to meet her. Not a big man and with only one arm he shouldn’t have been menacing, but as he stalked through the yard the entire place would fall silent. He looked neither left nor right and spoke to nobody. As the tale went, the Soldier spoke only to those who would die by his hand before the day was out. Clint had heard him speak, but only to Natasha, never directly. Even the idea of it made him break out in a cold sweat.

And now the Soldier was here, at Lord Richards’s ball. 

Clint opened his mouth. He had no idea what he was going to say, whether to make some excuse to leave, or warn Steve to get away, or just say nothing and hope the Soldier wouldn’t kill anybody today. Eventually what came out was a wavering, “How do you do?”

“Clint?” Steve said, putting a steadying hand on his elbow. “Are you all right? You've gone pale.”

“I felt dizzy for a moment,” Clint managed, forcing the words out of a dry throat. “It must be the heat.”

“I'm sorry to hear it,” the Winter Soldier said in a light, silky voice. “I hope you don't have to leave the party.”

Clint was sickeningly aware that that voice was the last thing many people ever heard. “No, sir,” he said.

“Good. I'm always glad to meet Steve's friends, and I'd like to introduce you to my wife.”

“…your wife?”

The Soldier shot him a grin and the tiniest of winks. Clint tried not to gape in astonishment. A _wink_? And this from the coldest assassin the world had ever seen. But, setting that aside, there was only one thing the Soldier could mean. Natasha. Could Natasha be here? 

“I'm sure she would desire to make your acquaintance, if your dizziness has passed.”

“I’m quite well,” Clint said, feeling his heartbeat speed up still further. “I’d be very happy to meet her.”

The Soldier looked over towards the musicians and the twirling couples on the dance floor. “She has some young admirer begging to kiss her feet, I imagine.” As the waltz finished he raised a hand in greeting. “There she is. Natasha, come and meet a friend of Steve's.”

The gentleman Natasha had been dancing with relinquished her hand and she swept gracefully up to them in a rustle of silk. She looked just the same, just as beautiful with her full lips and bright hair, though her face held only bland interest when her gaze fell on Clint. She showed no sign of the exasperated fondness with which she always used to regard him.

“Natasha, this is Mr Barton. Mr Barton, my wife, Mrs Barnes.”

Natasha’s eyes sparkled. She held out her hand to him, with the generic politeness a married woman should direct to a younger man, but as he took it and parroted out the usual niceties her fingers grasped his and squeezed. The gesture made him feel full up with warmth. He wanted to hug her. He didn't even care what business she and her terrifying lover had in London society, he was just happy to see her again.

“Are you sure you’re well, Clint?” Captain Rogers asked once the pleasantries had trickled to a halt. “I can fetch Phil for you if you’d like.”

“Perfectly well,” Clint said, dragging his eyes from Natasha with an effort. Even Steve’s myriad attractions couldn’t keep his attention for long. He turned back to her as soon as he politely could. “Mrs Barnes, would you care to dance?”

“I should be delighted.”

“Capital,” The Soldier said. The friendly grin that had seemed so incongruous on his face was back again. “Steve, we'll leave these two to get acquainted. Come to the card room with me and let me fleece you of all your worldly wealth.”

“Not again, Bucky,” Steve said, grinning back. “You'll ruin me at this rate, and drive me to drink, and I'll end in the sponging house singing sad songs to the ceiling about how my best friend took every last penny I had.”

“I'll bail you out,” the Soldier said, clapping him on the back. “Do you prefer to lose at whist or piquet?”

They departed.

“He's... in a good mood,” Clint said weakly, staring after them.

“Sometimes,” Natasha said with a hint of sadness in her voice. Then her smile fell back into place. “The next waltz is beginning.” She slid her arm into his so he could lead her towards the dance floor. “You'd better be able to dance, Clint,” she said into his ear. “Tread on my toes and I'll make you bleed.”

***

Clint had mastered the waltz under Lady Stark’s tutelage and was well used to graceful movement from his circus days, but he still spent the first few measures of the dance conscientiously minding his steps as he steered Natasha around the floor. She was a joy to dance with, so light on her feet that it felt almost as though he were guiding her through the air.

“You're grinning like a fool,” she hissed at him.

“I missed you.”

“How sweet. But try to express your delight without looking as though I just put my hand in your breeches.”

“That wouldn't make me smile.”

“You and I both know that, but I think there are a few people here who are unaware that you are the gayest man who ever drew breath. No, _don’t_ laugh.” She pinched him sharply on the arm.

“Ouch,” he complained, and managed to school his face into a rather less adoring expression. He sobered a little at the same time. “But Tasha, what's your angle here? Is it something to do with Captain Rogers? Please tell me you’re not going to hurt him.”

“He's a friend of yours?”

“He's a friend of Captain Coulson.” Clint glanced away, embarrassed. “My husband.”

“Your...”

“It's a long story.”

“So is mine.” Her eyes flickered around the room and came to rest on the door to the card room. “Things have changed since we last met. I can't explain it here. Pay me a morning call tomorrow and we'll talk.”

The dance ended. Natasha smiled enchantingly at the young woman who came up to claim her hand for the cotillion, and Clint retreated to the edge of the room, where he found himself practically mobbed by interested onlookers. Everyone wanted to know what he’d been talking about with the wife of James Barnes, the young lieutenant who’d been injured in battle five years ago and had only just now regained his memories and made his way home.

No, Clint thought. No, it couldn’t be real. It had to be some kind of trick.

He tried his best to duck the questions, but it was difficult to think of excuses and lies. The stresses of the night were making themselves insistently felt. Lord Richards’s papers, the Winter Soldier grinning and almost human, Natasha dancing with him, and now all of these people. He felt shaky and muzzy from the wine, and the clamour of voices was making his head ache.

“Clint?”

Coulson was at his elbow, resting a hand in the small of his back and guiding him away from the crowd into a clear space. Clint drew in a breath and tugged at the folds of his neckcloth.

Coulson looked at him impassively. Then, after a moment, he said, “I've sent someone to procure a carriage.”

“Sir?” Clint said, still trying to centre himself, desperately relieved to be out of the crush.

“Blame yourself for trying to coddle me for my leg,” Coulson said wryly. “I’m taking my revenge. You look worn to a thread and I want to conduct you home. I suppose you have a right not to go with me, but I think you’ll be better for seeing your bed.”

“I’ll go with you,” Clint said. Perhaps he was honour bound to protest that he was perfectly well, but he wasn’t. He wanted to go home, and he wanted the captain to take him, because then there would be nothing more to worry about. 

“You’re surprisingly sensible,” Coulson said, raising an eyebrow. “It will just be a moment. We must take leave of our hostess first.” He frowned. “May I?” He raised his hands, gesturing towards Clint’s neck. “You’ve set it into disorder.”

Clint submitted to having his neckcloth twitched back into a presentable form. Captain Coulson’s hands ghosted gently around his throat, and Clint closed his eyes for a brief moment until the touch fell away. He mumbled his thanks and pulled himself together as they forged easily through the throng of people, accompanied by the soft sound of Coulson’s cane tapping on the ground. When they found their hostess he was able to thank her politely for the evening, and then they were outside in the cool air ascending the steps of a carriage.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. He awoke to a hand on his shoulder.

“Clint?” Captain Coulson said. “Clint, you have to come inside now.”

Clint blinked his eyes open, finding Captain Coulson looking down at him with a small smile hovering about his lips. He had a kind face when he smiled like that. Yet again Clint thought how strange it was that someone so distant could look so pleasant and comforting at times. “Have we arrived?” he asked, sleepily embarrassed, suppressing a yawn.

“We have,” Coulson said, “a minute or more ago. You were sleeping like the dead. I thought I'd have to call a night watchman to cry the hour into your ear. Up and to bed with you before you fall asleep again on the doorstep.”

***

Clint woke the next morning feeling as though nothing could go wrong with the world. He dressed in a hurry, presented himself to Captain Coulson’s valet who frowned at him and made him repeat much of the process with more patience, and was in the breakfast room a little before nine.

“No riding today?” the captain said, looking up from his copy of the Gazette and taking in his attire.

“No, would you excuse me? I promised to pay a call on Mrs Barnes.”

“Mrs Barnes.” Captain Coulson paused for a moment. Then, quietly, he remarked, “It’s early to be paying calls. Why such haste?”

Clint stopped, the wind taken out of his sails. He had only thought of seeing Natasha as soon as he could, running straight to her as he would have if he’d met her while he and Barney were on the road. The restrictions and proprieties of society life had gone quite out of his head. “Is it not allowed to pay calls at this hour?”

“Have you ever received a morning visit before eleven?”

The question was dryly rhetorical, but there was something unusually cold in Coulson’s eyes. It reminded Clint a little of the Swordsman’s face when Clint had made some uncultured blunder.

“No,” Clint said, feeling his good mood sink away.

“And you shan’t pay one so early. You’ll ride with me as usual, if you please.”

Clint felt himself go tense. He hated it when the captain became like this, so chilly and forbidding. He wanted to say that he didn’t please, and that he didn’t like the stiff, tight way the captain was looking at him. It made him feel small and angry. “I’ll wait until eleven,” he allowed unwillingly.

“Until noon. No earlier.” Coulson paused again. “Will Lieutenant Barnes be at home?”

“No,” Clint said. Then, disconcerted, “I hope not.” It was a terrifying image, the Soldier sitting in a drawing room and sipping tea as he received callers. Then he realised how odd his answer must have sounded and scrabbled for an explanation. “I wanted to continue a discussion she and I were having, and it would be easier to pick up where we left off if it were just the two of us.”

“Limit your discussion to a polite half-hour, then.”

Half an hour? Clint thought, trying not to grind his teeth together. He couldn’t spend a bare half an hour with his best friend in the world. But it wouldn’t be any use to snap that he’d do as he pleased. Coulson was supposed to be his guide in the ways of the fashionable world, and Clint couldn’t explain that Natasha was different, more important. He would have to obey the rules.

Coulson didn’t have to be quite so high-handed about it though, just when Clint was starting to like him.

The ride in the park was strained, but it was enlivened about halfway through by an encounter with Lord Stark, who was yet again returned to town with Lady Stark. Clint didn’t even try to maintain a frowning countenance in the face of his lordship’s friendly teasing. He asked after her ladyship and hoped he might have the honour of calling upon her within the next few days.

Stark laughed, told him not to accumulate too much town politeness, then raised a hand to Captain Coulson, who had been hanging back from the conversation, and rode on. Clint, good mood restored, found that the clocks were just then striking a quarter to eleven and turned his mount back towards the house.

He presented himself at the Barnes’ lodgings at noon on the dot, and was ushered into the parlour where Natasha was sitting reading a novel. She stood gracefully when she saw him. “Mr Barton. How nice.” She turned to the servant. “Please inform Brigham that I’m not at home to other visitors. Thank you, that will be all.”

The door closed behind the maid, and Clint waited one second, two, three, and then couldn’t wait any longer. “Tasha,” he said, and reached out for her.

The last time he’d hugged her he’d been fifteen, and Barney had been calling impatiently for him to hurry because the coach to Calais was leaving. She’d traced her fingers over the fading bruises on his face and promised that she would see him again one day. He hadn’t been sure whether to believe her then. He still couldn’t quite believe it.

“You grew up, little bird,” she said, hugging him back.

He had. She felt small in his arms now, but though his body might have changed his heart hadn’t. He loved her so much.

Finally she laughed and stepped away. “Enough, Clint, we have too much to catch up on. We won’t have long if we’re to observe the proprieties.”

“Half an hour,” Clint said. “Morning calls are the stupidest thing imaginable.”

She quirked her mouth. “I know it. If another twittering women or simpering gentleman turns up on the doorstep sniffing for gossip I will be reaching for my knives, believe me.”

“But why on earth are you here?”

“For James.”

 _James._ It took a moment’s confusion before he remembered that Steve had introduced the Soldier as James. “Who’s his target?”

“There’s no target. It’s no deception. He belongs here.”

Clint listened wide-eyed to the story of the Soldier’s last mission. He and Natasha had been hired by the French to assassinate a certain general. The Soldier had gone to dispatch the watch, one of whom had been Steve, and for the first time in his memory had found himself unable to kill.

“We ran from the mission,” Natasha said. “He was changed. He remembered the young lieutenant he used to be and he was falling apart. I knew we had to find this Steve to put him together into a new shape.” She sighed. “So we did, and here we are.”

“He seems like another person.” He paused, curious. “If he’s changed so much do you still love him?”

Natasha’s eyes went hard. “Don’t ever doubt that, Clint.”

Clint frowned, then shrugged to himself. He hadn’t understood how she could love the Soldier in the first place, so how could he expect to understand this? “And you'll live here with him, playing the good wife? It doesn’t sound much to your taste.”

“The British Government knows who we are. James is under strict observation by the War Office, and they gave me the choice between making myself useful and a knife to the throat. Fortunately talented spies are too valuable to be thrown away. I'll be working for his Majesty from now on.” She shrugged. “I'm glad. Society life looks desperately dull. Which demands the question, what are you doing here?”

Clint sighed and told his story, watching Natasha’s eyebrows rise higher and higher. “…and so now I’m a proper young gentleman,” he finished. “Except that I’m not.”

Natasha closed her eyes for a moment. “God give me patience,” she said. “This plan is impossible, your brother has nothing but air between his ears and is greedy with it, and you’re a worse fool for listening to him. On top of which you choose to marry Captain Coulson, who is according to Steve one of the finest soldiers and best men in all England, and who is _not at all stupid_. He’ll work it out eventually. How do you expect this to end?”

Clint inspected his shoes.

Natasha sighed. “Well, what’s done is done, I suppose. We have a few minutes more. Tell me how you like London society.”

Seeing that he was unlikely to win her approval through arguing, there seemed nothing to do but talk of the amusements of London and the friendships he was cultivating. He told her that he had a beautiful bay mare to ride, that he was learning to box and had gone to see a boxing match with Peter and Johnny, and that he was invited to so many parties he scarcely spent a night at home. 

“You have said nothing of your husband,” she said at a break in his chattering.

Clint paused, struggling for an accurate description. Beautiful eyes, he thought, and an agonising fragility, calm and certain in a way that was either utterly reassuring or utterly forbidding. Even to Natasha he couldn’t explain it. “He’s… I don’t know him very well.”

“And do you like what you know?”

Clint shrugged. “Not today,” he said, because that at least he was sure of. “I wanted to come and see you in the morning and he said I must not come before noon and must not stay above a half hour.”

Natasha raised a sardonic eyebrow. “And this is unreasonable because…?”

“It was how he said it,” Clint said sullenly.

She laughed at him. “Well, if he’s preventing you from making a scandal of yourself I dare say you could be in worse hands. Go, your half hour is over. And Clint? Never visit me before a lady might be expected to have risen and breakfasted. It is not polite.”

 

**********

 

“They’re friends, nothing more,” Lady Stark said.

Phil shook his head, hand clenched tight around the head of his cane. “Friends? Pepper, from the moment they met he’s looked at her as though she hung the stars in the sky.”

For two full weeks, ever since Lord Richards’s ball, it had been obvious that Clint was painfully smitten with Mrs Barnes. Phil had caught a glimpse of them dancing at that first meeting and had thought for a moment that Clint’s smile was brighter than it had ever been. When he saw them again on their second turn about the floor he decided it must have been a trick of the light; but Clint’s impatience the next day had been no trick, and neither was the way he’d lit up every time since then when he walked into a room and found her there.

Clint was eighteen, just a boy, and ripe to be swept off his feet by a first love. Phil could sympathise – his own infatuation with Steve had been just as overwhelming – but it still set him on edge every time he saw Clint’s smile. He knew he must accept that there would be dalliances further down the road , but it was quite improper for Clint to throw himself at a married woman so soon after his own marriage. And Phil had made it clear that such dalliances should be discreet, which didn’t include Clint turning up at his love’s door with the sun scarcely risen. Plus the fact that the woman he was casting out lures to was not merely married, but married to Steve’s oldest friend.

And the fact that it all made Phil so angry he could barely think straight.

“I hoped she would send him about his business,” he told her ladyship. “Any woman of sense would recognise a boy’s infatuation and nip it in the bud. But she’s done nothing of the sort.”

“She encourages him?”

“Not more than is proper,” Phil admitted. Mrs Barnes was only moderately friendly to Clint. The problem was that her every kindness was magnified by his glowing reaction to it. “But he haunts her doorstep, he invites her on outings, he asks her to dance at every opportunity, and she takes no pains to push him away.”

Soon enough people would notice, Phil knew. They would talk. He had no wish to become a laughing stock, and even less wish to have his marriage of convenience and his financial embarrassments known to the world.

Lady Stark shook her head. “Phil, I would stake my favourite necklace that Mr Barton has not the slightest interest in women. I’ve never seen him look at any female the way he looks at--” She broke off, biting her lip.

“At Tony,” Phil finished for her.

She smiled ruefully. “I should have expected you’d notice. Yes, at Tony, and Steve, and you.”

“ _Me_?” Phil said.

“So you _hadn’t_ noticed.” Amusement flashed in her eyes. “Only a little, and only lately, but yes, he looks at you.”

“Well,” Phil said tightly, “it’s flattering that I merit a glance. But none of this solves the immediate problem of Mrs Barnes.”

The sensible thing would be to speak to Steve about it. Steve knew Mrs Barnes reasonably well, and might be able to discover whether Clint’s attentions were welcome to her. And if the solution was simply to explain to Clint that the lady was not interested, the news would be much better coming from Steve, who Clint had a marked partiality for, rather than Phil, who he did not especially like. But mysteriously, something always stopped Phil’s tongue.

 _My husband is in love with Mrs Barnes,_ he thought, turning the words over in his mind. He’d said them once to Pepper. He didn’t know if he could say them again. 

***

Perhaps it was not surprising that Phil’s eventual plan, which was to throw Clint into Steve’s way and hope that Steve broached the subject on his own, backfired on them all spectacularly.

“We went to Manton's,” Steve said, on conducting Clint home after the two had spent an afternoon together, “where I’m sad to say I found myself soundly trounced. He's fair shot, to put it mildly.”

At his shoulder Clint was a study in guilty embarrassment, wilting under Phil’s gaze.

Of all the places they could have gone, Manton’s Shooting Gallery was probably the worst. Phil could have hit himself. He should have suggested to Steve that they go to the British Museum, or to watch the changing of the guard, or at least he should have warned Clint that shooting, like fighting, was something of which he should profess ignorance. If Clint had half the skills with a gun that Pepper swore he had with a bow he would certainly catch the notice of the young bucks at Manton’s. An unknown newcomer who could outstrip Steve, widely reckoned to be one of the best shots in London, would cause a furore of gossip.

“My condolences on the death of your reputation,” Phil said, giving what was supposed to be a smile but might have looked more like a grimace.

Steve laughed good-naturedly. “Oh, you needn’t put it to bed with a shovel quite yet. It will totter back to life for a rematch next week. And now I must go and lick my wounds.” He made a little gesture to encourage Phil to come with him. “I need a word with you before I take my leave, Phil.”

“Of course,” Phil said, shooting a look at Clint over his shoulder to inform him that they would be having speech very soon. “Come into the library for a moment.”

Once the door had safely closed behind them Steve grinned and said, “That’s quite an unusual boy you have there.”

“Believe me, I know.”

“I like him, Phil.’ He paused awkwardly. ‘I want to stand his friend, and yours, so I hope you don’t mind me intruding in your business.”

“Of course,” Phil said, preparing himself for the worst.

“We met some young men at the shooting gallery who I felt treated him with unusual cordiality. I don’t know them well, but I know they hover on the edge of a certain set of heavy gamesters.”

Phil closed his eyes very briefly. He really hadn’t expected Clint to be able to get into any more trouble that day.

“I suspect they plan on introducing him to the hells,” Steve said. “Somehow I don’t think your innocent little rector's son is quite the greenhorn that they expect him to be, but I thought you should know what's toward.”

Any true child of a country parson would be a pigeon for the plucking if he fell into one of the gaming hells, where inexperienced young men were enticed to play cards for stakes beyond their means. After the sad fate of the Coulson family fortune Phil would much prefer that Clint kept away from such places, but he knew that Clint was no greenhorn and could most likely hold his own. Worryingly, Steve obviously knew it too.

“Thank you,” Phil said, making a pretence of not hearing the curiosity in Steve’s voice. “I’ll speak to him.”

“I’m glad,” Steve said. Then, because he was far too good a friend than to push for information Phil obviously didn’t want to give, he said what was polite and took his leave, telling Phil to thank Clint for a pleasant day, which was something Phil had no intention of doing.

On returning to the drawing room he found Clint seated on the sofa aimlessly shuffling a pack of playing cards. Clint looked up and came to his feet, biting his lip. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think.”

“Obviously,” Phil snapped. Then, getting a better hold on his temper, he said, “I didn't know you could shoot a gun.” To do well at Manton’s took speed and proficiency in loading a pistol. There was no reason to think that an archer would understand such matters. 

“Of course I can shoot a gun,” Clint said, sounding like a schoolboy in front of an accusatory schoolmaster. “I didn't know that everyone else here _couldn't_ shoot a gun.” He gave Phil an irritable look. “My teacher could have hit those stupid pieces of paper with his eyes closed, and so could--” he caught himself on the last words, looking even guiltier. “The other people I know who can shoot would be able to do so as well.”

Were it not beneath his dignity, Phil would have groaned aloud. “Well, lord knows how we will explain this one away.” He suddenly found himself without patience entirely. Watching Clint pine over a woman was bad enough, the slip over the shooting was skirting disaster, and watching him turn to gambling would be quite unbearable. All his diplomacy deserted him. “And Clint? Captain Rogers told me that you’re making friends with a set of gamesters. You’ll cut those ties immediately, and I don’t want to hear of you setting foot in any gaming establishment whatsoever. Is that understood?”

The guilt left Clint’s demeanour all at once. His eyes flashed. “I have no intention of gambling away your fortune, sir, what little of it remains. You need not place strictures on my behaviour and my friends.”

“It seems that I must if I’m to save myself from yet more embarrassment,” Phil snapped. “You’ll stay out of the hells, or else you’ll no longer have access to my funds and you’ll have to come to me every time you want even a shilling to spend.”

“ _Your_ funds?”

“If you recall, you signed your assets over to me.”

He knew he was being unreasonable. There was no sign that Clint had done more than play a few friendly games of cards. But gambling was insidious, and debts could soon mount up, and Clint was _infuriating_. What kind of young idiot could be a crack shot with a pistol and not even know it?

The same kind of young idiot who would go sniffing after Mrs Barnes like a hound after a bitch in heat.

“ _Is that understood_ ” Phil asked again.

Clint glared. “Go to the devil,” he snarled, and slammed out of the room.

***

As far as Phil could tell, Clint stayed out of the hells. He also barely spoke to Phil all of the following week, and spent as much of his time as he could with Mrs Barnes. Phil put up with it as best he could, though it fretted him and made him want to be up and moving. He went riding too long, overworked his leg, and spent a couple of miserable days hobbling around the house and trying not to take his temper out on the servants. By the evening of the ball Lady Van Dyne was giving for her daughter’s come-out, he was at his wits end.

Twice now he had looked for Clint at parties and been quite unable to find him for half an hour or more. No doubt Mrs Barnes was the cause yet again, and Phil simply couldn’t allow Clint to make assignations with a woman and sneak off to meet her at in a quiet corner of some grand lady’s house. They were bound to be discovered.

When the carriage drew up outside the Van Dyne mansion he gave his silent, cold-eyed husband a hand down the steps and conducted him into the house, determined to keep a closer watch on him this time.

***

The party was in full swing when Clint slipped unobtrusively out of the ballroom. Phil almost missed his exit. There were too many people, too many tiresome arrangements of flowers obscuring the view, and too many of his acquaintances trying to claim his attention. By the time he’d managed to weave his way through the crowds to the door Clint had disappeared through, Clint was nowhere in sight. Phil gritted his teeth in annoyance and started up a small staircase, trying to consider where he would go if he were looking for privacy.

He was lucky. As he passed a small room off the first landing he heard muffled speech. The door stood open a crack, and he moved quietly to open it further.

Inside the room Clint was backed against the wall. It took a second for Phil to recognise the man looming over him as Lieutenant Barnes.

Phil grimaced. So Clint had come to meet the wife and found instead the aggrieved husband, who was ready to tear his head off. He couldn’t help but think that Clint was well-served for his behaviour. And thankfully Lieutenant Barnes could warn him off more effectively than Phil ever could.

But Barnes wasn’t talking. He was standing quiet and unnervingly still. His empty sleeve was towards Phil, and the other hand…

Phil tensed as he realised what he was seeing. Barnes’s single hand held a vicious little knife, the point of it pressed to Clint’s stomach.

Clint was the one talking, with the sort of sick calm that overlays terror. “You know me,” he said. “I’m Clint. I’m Natasha’s friend from the circus. The boy with the bow. I’m not a target, you don’t want to hurt me.”

“I’m supposed to hurt you,” Barnes said. His voice held no anger and no threat. It was clinical. Detached. “Aren’t I?” he asked.

Clint shook his head desperately. With the movement he looked slightly away from Barnes’s face. He caught sight of Phil and drew in a gasping breath.

Barnes spun round, though the knife didn’t move even a fraction of an inch from its position. His eyes were blank and unrecognising in a way Phil had seen once or twice before among his men in the army. Not an aggrieved husband, then. Something much more dangerous. A man who had lost his place in the world, and could no longer tell friend from enemy.

Someone who could drive that knife into Clint at any moment, without hesitation.

“Who are you?” Barnes snapped.

Very slowly, Phil spread his hands to show that they were empty of weapons. He took a brief second to force calm into his mind. “My name is Phil Coulson,” he said, “and yours is Lieutenant Barnes.” Then, even more gently, “Bucky. Bucky, you’re in London, at a party in the house of Lady Van Dyne. You’re here with your wife and your friend Steve. You’re quite safe. There’s nothing to hurt you.”

“My wife?” Barnes said, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his tone.

“Tasha,” Clint said. His voice wavered with the fear that he was doing well to hide. “Natalia. She’s out in the ballroom.”

“You’re Clint,” the lieutenant said. He frowned. Slowly he raised his hand, still holding the knife, and stroked the flat of the blade over Clint’s cheek. Clint flinched back, pulling away from the macabre caress. “She would be upset if I killed you.”

Phil could see the knife drop slightly until the point was hovering just below Clint’s chin. The detached dreaminess in Barnes’s quiet voice made his blood run cold. He stepped further into the room, easing himself forward until he was on a level with Clint. “Bucky,” he said, “Clint is going to fetch your wife now.”

Once the lieutenant’s attention fixed on him he took Clint’s arm and gave him a gentle tug towards the door. The knife point didn’t waver as Clint slid out from behind it. 

“You can’t stay here with him,” Clint said urgently under his breath.

Phil would happily stay , if only Clint would leave. “I can,” he said. “I promise no harm will come to me.”

“Sir...”

“Clint, _go_. Quickly, if you please.”

With a final uncertain glance at Barnes, Clint went. Phil’s heart began to beat again.

For the next few minutes he talked quietly to Barnes, watching the man’s demeanour change little by little. That dangerous blankness faded to confusion. He started to shiver. Phil took the knife out of his hand just a few seconds before his knees gave way, He slid down the wall to sit awkwardly on the floor.

Clint was back just a moment later, at the heels of both Mrs Barnes and Steve. She crossed the room in a few brisk strides and dropped to her knees by her husband, heedless of her skirts. She took his face between her hands, stroking her thumbs over his cheekbones, and spoke to him in a language Phil didn’t know.

Behind her Steve looked grim but not surprised.

Mrs Barnes sounded tender as the unknown words flowed. The rest of them stood very still. After a long while Barnes spoke back to her hesitantly in the same language. She looked up then, and gestured to Steve.

“Help me take him home.”

Together they got the lieutenant to his feet. Steve put a supporting arm around him and led him away, with Mrs Barnes close on his other side. As they passed Clint in the doorway she paused.

“I’m sorry he frightened you, little bird.”

“I wasn’t frightened,” Clint said.

She shook her head, smiled at him, and followed the others out.

***

“You have a certain amount to explain to me, I think,” Phil said.

They were back at home, settled in his library with a decanter of wine that Phil felt sorely in need of. Whenever he closed his eyes he could see that little knife pressed against Clint’s belly, and imagine the spreading bloodstain that could so easily have soaked his silk waistcoat.

“I can’t,” Clint said. He was shifting and twitching in his seat, a picture of agitation. “I know you’re angry with me, but it’s not my secret. I haven’t any right.” His voice was a little different than Phil was used to. It had been different when he was talking to Barnes as well. Not unrefined, precisely – whoever had taught him to speak properly had burned the lesson in deep – but less cautious, less prim, and more honest.

Phil, although he should be concentrating on quite other matters, found himself thinking that he liked it.

“I’m hardly going to publish it abroad,” he said. “And if I’m to save us both from any scandal that may arise I need to know the truth.”

Clint ducked his head. Phil decided to interpret it as agreement.

“I take it that you know Lieutenant and Mrs Barnes rather better than I was led to believe.”

Clint nodded unwillingly. “I’ve known them for years.” He paused, and then at Phil’s demanding gesture he continued, “I was ten when I first met Natasha. I’d shot poorly that day, and been beaten for it. She saw me crying in the stables and brought me some salve for my back.”

Phil pursed his lips. His own little brothers were barely younger than ten. “Was she a circus performer?” he asked, trying to banish the thought of the two of them with livid welts adorning their backs and nobody but a stranger to tend to them.

“Tasha? No,” Clint said. “Can you see someone like her among all of us ignorant circus folk? She was never part of an act, and she never stayed with us for long. During Napoleon’s campaigns Paris was riddled with spies and conspirators. Sometimes people came to us for information or to leave messages. She used the circus for such things for a while. She would come there to pick up her instructions.”

Phil’s heart sank. “She was a spy?” he asked.

Clint nodded.

“For the French or the English?”

“For whoever would pay.”

“Good god,” Phil said weakly. “And her husband too?”

Clint shook his head. “He came later. She didn’t use the circus for messages by then but she came to visit me often. One day he came looking for her. You should have heard the way the whispers spread around the courtyard. In the space of a minute everyone knew who he was, and none of them wanted to be anywhere near him.” He glanced up, met Phil’s eyes and admitted, “Back then his name was the Winter Soldier.”

“The _assassin?_ ’ Phil said.

Clint nodded.

“Lieutenant James Barnes is the Winter Soldier? And he’s now living in London and dancing at soirees?”

“Yes.”

“Good god,” Phil said again, and took a long draught of his wine.

“He’s different now,” Clint said, as though trying to justify the ridiculous situation. “He remembers who he used to be, he’s… quite nice, really. But today I said something to him – just a joke, in Russian. Whatever I said, it set him off. It was like flipping a coin so it shows its other face. He came at me with a knife for no reason.”

“You’re sure it wasn’t because you were sneaking off to meet his wife?” Phil said wryly.

Clint looked startled. “Meeting…? Oh!” The prim note crept back into his voice, mingled with confusion. “Yes, we were… I just wanted to talk to her in private. How could he object to that?”

In Phil’s opinion there were many ways he could object to that, but Clint somehow seemed to be happily oblivious of all of them. “So you’re not in love with Mrs Barnes?” he asked.

“With Tasha?” Clint said, sounding utterly baffled. “Of course not! Why would you--” He broke off abruptly, flushing, his mouth shaping itself into an O of realisation. “Did it seem so?”

“You certainly gave that impression to me. And I fear many others were coming to the same conclusion.”

Clint looked mortified. “People were talking of it?”

At the tender age of eighteen Clint had a naivety and sincerity that was quite impossible and probably going to get them both into a great deal of trouble. It was unfortunate that Phil was beginning to find it almost blindingly attractive. “Clint, you’ve been spending every minute you could with her, and none with your husband. Of course people were beginning to talk.”

Clint flushed still further. “But… why did you let me act that way?” he said.

“I wouldn’t have for much longer.”

“And they think that I was unfaithful? Sir, I beg your pardon.” He looked honestly apologetic, and very young. “I never meant to embarrass you. I can make this right. I’ll be the most attentive husband you could wish for, I swear. Nobody will have cause to talk. I’m so sorry to have been a nuisance to you. I won’t do so again.”

“Thank you,” Phil said. “I’m sure you won’t.”

In fact he was quite sure that Clint would continue to be a damned nuisance, but he could feel a smile lifting the corner of his mouth nonetheless.

***

The next day, when Phil was engaged in writing letters, the footman tapped on the door and announced that Captain Rogers was waiting in the hall.

“Send him in,” Phil said, and a few moments later a rather sheepish-looking Steve was ushered into the room.

“Hello Phil.”

“Hello,” Phil said. He looked Steve up and down, raised an eyebrow and waited pointedly.

Steve’s lip twitched. “Well, I can see you’re a little annoyed with me,” he said. “But to be fair, you lied to me just as much as I lied to you.”

“You knowingly unleashed an assassin on London,” Phil pointed out.

“And you did the same with a circus performer.”

Phil shot him an unamused glare. “Clint has never pulled a knife on anyone.”

“Neither had Bucky, before last night.” Steve sighed. “Phil, you’ve met him, you’ve talked to him. He’s not a killer. Something was done to him, and I’ve been working all these months to undo it. He’s been doing so well. You have no idea how hard it’s been for him to come into society, but he knew that he couldn’t stay buried in Hertfordshire forever seeing nobody but Natasha and I. This is a small setback, and we’re damned lucky it was only Clint and you who saw him slip, rather than somebody who would cry the tale to the world.” He paused. “You won’t cry the tale, will you?”

“If I did, would you tell the world about Clint?”

“Of course not! What sort of friend do you take me for?”

“Then you must think me a poor friend that you have to ask me that question,” Phil said.

Steve grinned, dazzlingly bright. “I knew I could count on you. It’s such a relief that there are to be no more secrets between us.”

Phil nodded. He welcomed it too. He motioned Steve to sit, and rang the bell for a servant to bring in refreshments. They sat together in comfort, swapping stories of Bucky’s recovery and Clint’s colourful history, and Phil realised just how much he’d missed his friend, although they had seen each other almost every day.

“Now for the other reason I came,’ Steve said once the stories had come to a close. ‘Mrs Barnes has bade me invite you and Clint to go with us to the opera this Friday. She has invited Lord and Lady Stark as well, so all of the conspirators in this mess will be gathered in one place. What do you say?”

“Clint has never been to the opera,” Phil said, smiling. He wondered whether Clint would be delighted by the dancers and music or scornful as one who had been part of the spectacle at the circus. Whichever it was, Phil looked forward to watching it. “Decidedly we will come.”

***

For the whole week before the trip to the opera Clint was as good as his word. He accompanied Phil everywhere. They strolled round to the clubs together, rode at the promenade hour together, went on excursions, visited friends, and spent evenings at parties and soirees and the theatre, always together. If Clint was impatient with Phil’s sedate steps, or wishing to be elsewhere, he showed no sign of it. His cheerful good nature was out in full force, and although it was only done for effect Phil found it a bitter-sweet pleasure to be on the receiving end of all those smiles.

On their next evening at Almack’s Phil even received a frown from Lady Castlereigh, who doubtless disapproved of their apparent marital bliss. He had to turn away so he could school his face into an expression free of amusement, and then utterly failed to do so when he felt a touch on his elbow and turned to find Clint hovering there yet again. He could feel her ladyship’s frown growing deeper by the second.

Clint was accompanied by a lively, curvaceous damsel who, judging by where her eyes were lingering, had a full appreciation of his charms. “Sir, I’m going to fetch Miss Lewis some refreshment,” he said. “Would you keep her entertained until I return?”

The look in his eyes was pleading. Phil finally managed to choke down the laughter bubbling inside him. “Gladly,” he said.

“Thank you,” Clint said feelingly, and made his escape.

The thing was easily done. A few pretty compliments caught the young lady’s attention, a glance found a gentleman who would be very much to her taste, and the introduction was smoothly performed. She was swept away onto the dance floor, Clint entirely forgotten.

When Clint returned bearing a glass of lemonade his eyes filled with relief to find Phil alone. He glanced around until he located Miss Lewis’s twirling form, breaking into a grin. “That girl’s a damned menace, and you’re a miracle worker,” he said. “It sounded so simple when you told me how to do it, but I couldn’t find a gentleman to leave her with and I wouldn’t have known how to make the introduction if I did. I hope you don’t mind that I came to you.”

“You can always come to me,” Phil said.

He intended only to explain that it was his duty to guide Clint until he could manage these problems on his own, but somehow the words stuck in his throat, leaving that first sentence hanging in the air, an unintended admission of how happy he felt when Clint chose to seek him out.

Clint blinked, looking adorably confused, and Phil tried not to blush.

“I’ll– I’ll remember that,” Clint said finally. He held out the glass of lemonade. “Would you care for it?”

Phil wasn’t fond of lemonade, but he took it and sipped it anyway.

***

The promised trip to the opera was a rousing success, more because of the company than the performance. While Lieutenant and Mrs Barnes were not well acquainted with Lord and Lady Stark, all parties found a great deal to like in each other. The ladies shared an interest in politics, while the gentlemen found common ground over sporting pursuits, and his lordship was fascinated by the description of the lieutenant’s gun, which had been modified so it could be loaded with one hand. And while Clint didn’t seem particularly impressed by the opera he was obviously delighted to be in the company of so many of his favourite people, all of whom knew his secret. During the interval Natasha even told a few tales of Clint’s time in the circus, making him squirm and call her some extremely uncomplimentary names that it was very fortunate nobody but the seven of them could hear. Then, as there were a few minutes remaining before the performance restarted, Clint and Lieutenant Barnes escorted the ladies to meet some acquaintances who had waved and beckoned from the box on the other side of the theatre. Phil and Lord Stark were left behind to drink the last of the champagne.

“I always thought him a pretty youth,” Lord Stark said, watching the figures as they emerged into the opposite box. “Now he has a little town polish he’s absolutely delectable. I must make sure to invite him to Stark Manor once we’re a few more months past your wedding day. He would warm my bed beautifully, don’t you think?”

Phil had raised his fist before he even knew what he was about. He caught himself, frozen in astonishment, before the punch was thrown.

His lordship didn’t flinch. Reaching out delicately, he put one finger atop Phil’s hand and pressed it back down onto the table. “Really, Phil? The estimable Mr Coulson brawling at the Opera House?”

“Don’t try my temper, Tony,” Phil said. He was breathing hard.

“But what did I say to upset you? Only that Mr Barton’s charms are somewhat to my taste. You have no claim on his affections, I believe.”

Phil damped down another fierce spike of anger. “Must I remind you that your wife is one of my closest friends and you swore to be faithful to her?”

“You may remind me as often as you wish,” Lord Stark said, smirking, “and it still won’t be the reason you’re ready to murder me now. Fear not, I’ve no designs on your husband, although we both know he would come running if I chose to snap my fingers--”

“My lord, if you want to finish the evening with all of your blood still on the inside you had best stop talking,” Phil said, making a valiant effort to keep his hands still. He knew quite well that Clint would willingly tumble into his lordship’s bed if given the least opportunity, just as he had to admit, at least to himself, that he wasn’t angry solely on Pepper’s behalf.

Barely even slightly on Pepper’s behalf.

He was a poor friend, he told himself, and a poorer husband of convenience if he even found himself unable to let Clint go his own way.

Lord Stark subsided with a laugh. “Aye, I’m done. I’ve gathered enough intelligence to report back to her ladyship at any rate.” He gave Phil a friendly pat on the arm. “Don’t blame yourself, Phil. Once you’re caught in one of Pepper’s schemes there’s no way out. She has the best of us dancing to her tune.”

 

**********

 

Clint swallowed the last morsel of his baked turbot, put down his fork, and gave a polite smile of thanks to the footman who came to clear away his plate. There were two footmen in the Coulson household. Neither of them had ever said anything to him beyond ‘yes sir’, passing on messages and reporting who was at the door. They were his own age and had probably been born in better circumstances than he, but now the insurmountable barrier of class separated him from them. They would never tell him a joke or invite him down to the kitchen to join them in a mug of beer. Even if they knew of his background, it would make no difference. They might snigger about him below-stairs, but to his face it would still be ‘yes sir’. He’d chosen his side and now he was stuck with it.

Captain Coulson was good to his servants. He didn’t seem to think it strange that they never treated him like a human being.

Coulson gave the footman a nod and waved away the decanter. “I’d rather arrive at the party in good time,” he said across the table to Clint, “if you can do without a glass of port.”

Clint wrinkled his nose. The captain knew his opinion of the sickly, syrupy stuff. It had come to be something of a joke between them. “It’s a trial, but I’ll manage,” he said.

“You’re very good,” Coulson said. As he got up from the table he winced noticeably and gave a wry grimace.

He was doing it more often lately – not, Clint thought, because he was in more pain, but because he was more willing to let his discomfort show. Clint was relieved at it. He hated the thought of the captain struggling through pain, with him knowing nothing of it.

But this wince was worse than usual. The weather had been chilly and damp that day, and on top of that they’d ridden out into the countryside some distance. Clint crossed the room swiftly and offered his arm.

“I can walk perfectly well on my own, you know,” Coulson said.

Clint looked him up and down, taking in his pallor and the slight tremors running through him. “It’s not polite to call you a fatwit, is it?” he asked.

Coulson gave a gasp of laughter. “No, not very. Were you planning to?”

“I ought to. You’re just being stubborn. I know it hurts you, and I’m here to help,” Clint said, sticking out his chin determinedly. He understood perfectly well that Coulson preferred to manage on his own, but when they both knew that he was entirely capable of it, but that it would be painful and Clint could make it easier with no effort whatsoever, the whole thing seemed ridiculous.

Coulson rolled his eyes. “Why is it so difficult to argue with you? Very well, you may help me upstairs, I need to change my coat and neckcloth before we leave.”

He leaned some of his weight on Clint’s arm. There wasn’t much of it. He was still painfully thin. Clint forced himself to concentrate on the warmth of his hand and the pulse fluttering beneath the skin, trying not to think of quite how close the captain had come to death, and how horribly ill he must have been in the nine months between his injury and their first meeting.

“I’ll help you upstairs, but we’re not going out,” Clint said.

That night there was to be one of the season’s most splendid balls, given by the Duchess of Asgard to celebrate her son’s betrothal. Clint knew Lord Thor slightly from the boxing saloon, where he was an acknowledged master of the sport. Captain Coulson didn’t seem to know the family at all well, but he had still been invited to the ball. Of course he had, Clint thought, with a strange sort of pride. Coulson was pleasant, personable, of very respectable lineage and a war hero as well. There was nobody in London who wouldn’t want him as a guest at their party. 

“Naturally we’re going.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You wanted to this morning,” Coulson said. They had reached the foot of the stairs and the small sigh he gave as he looked up at them was not a good sign. 

“Your leg didn’t hurt this morning.”

“Clint,” Coulson began. Then he took the first step, winced again, and swore.

“Not going,” Clint said. “You can sit in the library with a glass of wine and a book.”

“Can I? How generous of you to give me permission,” Coulson said. He sounded too tired to be really annoyed.

“I might let you write to your sister,” Clint conceded, “if it’s a short letter.”

That won him another laugh. “Brat,” Coulson told him. “You’ve become shockingly disrespectful of late. Well, escort me to the library then. But you’re still going to the party.”

“Without you?” Clint said, surprised. He had gone to parties alone before, but not since he’d determined to become a more attentive husband.

“I think we’ve made enough of a show that my reputation will survive one night apart from you.“

Clint frowned. Captain Rogers and Lord and Lady Stark would be at the party, as well as most of his favourite acquaintances, and there would be the kind of dancing he really enjoyed, with plenty of space, as well as entertainments and particularly fine food and wine. He did want to go, he told himself firmly. Otherwise he would sit quietly at home, curled up on a sofa in the library with the romance novel he had picked up at the circulating library, reading out the silliest passages to Coulson. And Coulson would snort with laughter and tell him to stop wasting time on such nonsense, or at least be quiet while he did.

Clint never was quiet. He liked making Coulson laugh.

“I suppose so,” he said, opening the library door and allowing Coulson to shake off his supporting arm and limp to his favourite chair. “If you promise to rest.”

“You’re a worse mother hen than my sister. No, take that away. I don’t want a footstool, and I’ll fetch my own books, and I think I can manage to get up and ring the bell myself if I want refreshment. Go out to your party, you’re beginning to wear on my patience.”

Clint felt his face heat. “I beg your pardon.”

Coulson’s stern expression softened. “No, don’t beg my pardon,” he said, reaching out to touch Clint’s sleeve. “It’s I who should be begging yours. I didn’t mean to snap. I’ll be in a better temper after a night at home. Forgive me?”

“Yes sir, with all my heart.”

That brought the smile back to Coulson’s face. “Thank you, Clint,” he said. “Now go on, and tell Steve I’m looking forward to seeing him at Tattersalls tomorrow.”

Clint made a disconsolate face and obediently went to ready himself for the evening. Once he was sure he was presentable he swung his overcoat around his shoulders and set his hat atop his carefully brushed hair, thinking back to that day at Stark Manor when he’d fretted so much over his outmoded clothes. Now he felt perfectly at home in silk waistcoats and starched shirt points.

It was good, he decided, to spend an evening without the captain at his side. Their constant company had too often prevented him from finding some opportunity to slip from a party in search of a study full of papers. He’d met with Barney twice since the wedding, and each time had been able to give only titbits of gossip and a few love notes which Barney had frowned over and set aside until such time as they might come in useful. They were due to meet again in a handful of days, and this time Clint had nothing to offer. Barney would be annoyed, unless Clint could unearth something solid in the meantime.

The party was as bright and glittering as anyone could have hoped. The prospective bride, Miss Foster, was aglow with happiness when she was presented to Clint. Lord Thor, who claimed Clint’s hand for one of the country dances, listed her many virtues whenever the movement of the dance brought them together, informing him that she was not merely beautiful but wise and determined and altogether the best woman in the world.

Clint grinned to himself. Their wedding would be a vast event, with half of London present to witness it, quite unlike his own, with only the three witnesses and Captain Coulson taking his hand and brushing a kiss against his cheek.

He was still smiling a little when he subtly extricated himself from the crowds and sidled out of the ballroom, but he sobered quickly and focused on his task. Walking lightly down the richly panelled passageway he located a door that looked promising and slipped inside. It was a study, to be sure. A fire burned low in the grate, the flickering light revealing book-lined walls. Clint found a taper on the mantle and lit a candle to explore the contents of the desk. It was all in disorder, bearing a jumble of discarded items: a whip, gloves, a fencing mask. Papers protruded from the half-open drawers. The letters were addressed to Lord Thor. There were invitations and bills and a few legal documents, and then, tucked away behind a box of calling cards, Clint unearthed a bundle tied up with green tape. More letters, he realised. A quick check of the signatures showed that these came from his lordship’s younger brother, Lord Loki, who had died a few years before in some accident. Not surprising that Thor had kept the mementos safe.

Except… at the back of the bundle were a few loose pages, unsigned but in the same hand, and dated just six months ago.

Frowning, Clint tugged the candle closer. He read, his mouth going dry as the realised the import of his discovery. The letter was clearly from Lord Loki. It seemed that the Duke’s second son was not dead after all, but sent away to Europe, and the sly, sarcastic words on the page made no attempt to hide the reason for it. Three years ago Lord Loki had been caught by his brother selling military secrets to the French.

Clint swallowed.

Well.

That was a scandal indeed. _Traitor._ It was the worst kind of shame, and Clint held the proof of it in his hands.

What kind of sentimental simpleton, he asked himself, would keep such a letter? It might have been written for the express purpose of implicating both the writer and the recipient. Any person with an ounce of self-preservation would have instantly consigned it to the fire. Lord Thor almost deserved to have it used against him.

Almost.

There was no time to think. He’d lingered too long already, and he was running a real risk of being missed. He slipped the letter into his coat, carefully replaced the other papers, and went to sneak back into the ballroom.

***

The letter burned a hole in his pocket for the next three days. In another three he would have to give it to Barney. After that, he would hear nothing more of it. Barney would handle the matter through subtle means and undisclosed contacts so there could be nothing to link Mr Clint Barton to a blackmail plot. The Duke would hand over the money to save his good name and his son’s neck, and that would be that. Clint’s part was played as soon as the letter left his hand. He could forget it had ever happened.

He’d have to forget, or else live the rest of his life with this horrible, tight, breathless feeling in his chest.

A large part of him wanted to tell Natasha, but he knew that she would only tell him to put the letter back where he had found it. He couldn’t do that. Barney was counting on him, and Barney mattered more than any duke or lord. All the nobility had plenty of money, so this wouldn’t hurt anyone. It would simply teach Lord Thor to be more careful with his correspondence.

And it certainly wouldn’t hurt Captain Coulson, because nobody would ever find out Clint had anything to do with it.

He was telling himself this for the fifteenth time as he and the captain took their morning ride in the park, and completely missed the captain saying his name.

“Clint?” Coulson said again, and brought his horse up close so he could tap the end of his riding crop lightly against Clint’s thigh. Clint jerked back to awareness with a bitten-off noise of surprise.

“Wool-gathering again?” Coulson asked.

“I suppose so.”

“Care to tell me what’s been troubling you?”

“Nothing’s troubling me, sir,” Clint said hastily. “I was thinking about whether we might go to the theatre again this week. I know you wished to see _Coriolanus_.”

“No, we won’t go to the theatre,” Coulson said, with slightly exasperated amusement. “As I’ve been trying to tell you these past two minutes, I’ve several matters to attend to on my estates and I can’t put off a visit any longer.”

“You’re going away?” Clint said. He frowned. The trip might coincide with his meeting with Barney, which would mean he wouldn’t need to explain his absence, so that was a good thing. But he couldn’t help thinking that the house would feel strangely empty. He had never lived in it alone. It wouldn’t feel like home.

“For a few nights.” Coulson paused. Then, with an uncertainty that wasn’t like him, he asked, “Do you care to come with me?”

Clint’s mare took a few dancing steps, and he realised he’d let his hands drop in his astonishment. He quieted her swiftly, his mind racing. Why had Coulson invited him? Probably it was just because it would present a more convincing picture to the outside world. Naturally a newlywed would prefer to stay with his husband, even on a business trip to an estate in Kent in weather that confirmed April’s reputation for showers. But they could surely find an excuse for him to stay behind.

Perhaps Coulson simply wanted someone to bear him company on the journey. It would be a long few hours to be jolting along muddy roads with his leg aching and nobody to talk to. If that were the case Clint would be perfectly willing to go, except that he had promised to meet with Barney. But he _had_ promised, and he should say no. He had a duty to perform. Even so, he would rather keep Coulson company and see his estates and the house where he had grown up.

When had he become so used to the captain that a full day spent alone with him in a travelling carriage seemed a pleasure rather than a chore?

Coulson cocked an eyebrow questioningly. “Well? I know there’s little to do in the country at this time of year, but perhaps you would like to bring your bow.”

All the uncertainty fell straight out of Clint’s head. Barney and duty be damned, their meeting could be put off another few days and Lord Loki’s letter would be no less incriminating for the wait. He was being offered the chance to shoot and there was nothing on earth that would prevent him from taking it.

“When do we leave?”

Coulson laughed. “I thought that might tempt you. We’ll go tomorrow, if you have no pressing engagement.”

“None, sir. I’ll be ready at whatever hour you choose.

***

The Coulson family estates were on nothing like the scale of Lord Stark’s, and were sadly tumbledown in places, but there were bustles of activity where cottages were being repaired and new ditches dug. The house showed similar signs of neglect, with threadbare curtains and closed-up rooms. Coulson had looked sad when they first arrived, limping heavily after the drive, and Clint felt guilty pestering him with questions, but he couldn’t help himself. The thought of being born and brought up in a house like this was fascinating. Coulson had had nursemaids and a pony to ride, and had played out in the grounds with Lady Stark when they were both young. There were even portraits to show how he had looked. The earliest, in the dining room, showed a serious-eyed boy of about eleven standing at his father’s side with one hand resting on the back of a slender greyhound. Clint took a moment to study the elder Mr Coulson, and could see no sign that this was a dissolute gamester who had ruined his family. He looked much like his son, with calm, kind eyes. The second painting was in a cosy sitting room, and showed the young Mr Philip Coulson at about the age Clint was now, accompanied by a little golden-haired girl. It was a charming picture. Despite the formal composition the artist had captured the fondness between brother and sister in his smile and the way she clung trustingly to his hand. Clint wondered if Barney had ever looked at him and smiled like that. No, he decided. They’d been too busy struggling to survive to have any time for smiles.

“That’s Julia?” he asked Coulson, who was standing at his shoulder looking up at the picture.

“That’s Julia. There’s a newer portrait in the gallery, if you’d care to see it.”

“Of course I would. I’d like to imagine her before I meet her.” He paused, uncertain. “I will meet her, won’t I?”

“Of course you’ll meet her, and the boys too, when the spring term ends. They’re a pair of imps and you’ll soon be wishing them at perdition, because they’ll most likely dog your heels and beg for whatever scraps of attention you care to give them.”

“You think they’ll like me?”

“I know they will. But don’t worry, you’re quite free to ignore them. Our bargain didn’t include you playing endless games of cricket with my brothers.”

“I wouldn’t mind.” There were no portraits of the boys. From what Clint had heard, they didn’t much resemble their brother in either looks or temperament.

“You say that now,” Coulson said, smiling. “They never tired of asking for piggy-back rides from me when they were small, and I had family feeling to help me through it. Now they’re older and I can no longer play rough games with them so you’ll have their full attention. I’ll make sure they know they should make no demands on you, but if you encourage them I can’t answer for the consequences.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Clint repeated, feeling something catch in his chest. It was awful to think that Coulson imagined his injuries would make his brothers care less about him. “But I’m sure they would prefer having your attention to mine, even if you run slower than you once did.”

“You’re very sweet,” Coulson said, with a slightly painful laugh. “Come, let me show you Julia.”

***

The next day dawned bright and clear, bringing with it the first real warmth of the year. It couldn’t have been a better day for shooting. Clint forced himself to take time to wash, dress in clean clothes, and eat a good breakfast before snatching up his bow and tumbling out of the door and into the grounds. Captain Coulson was to be sequestered with his man of business, leaving Clint at liberty do as he chose. He decided then and there to spend the whole day outdoors, with target practice to begin with, and then a ramble in the woods, perhaps bringing back a brace or so of partridge if he chanced to disturb them.

The grass of the lawns had grown long, and Clint tramped through it, wetting his boots with the last of the morning dew, until he reached a spot in between two sweeping oak trees. There was the stump of another tree there, and he used a rock to score faint target rings into the bark before pacing his way to a sensible distance, unslinging the bow from his back and reaching into his quiver.

He drew back the arrow and held, feeling the muscles in his back and arms stretch blissfully into their proper shapes. He still felt out of balance, off-kilter, but so much better for just the first few seconds of effort. _Hold, hold, wait… and release._

The arrow smacked into the makeshift target. Almost before it hit he had another one on the string and flying, splitting the first down the centre. It was a silly, showy trick, a waste of an arrow that would have earned him a cuff if the Swordsman had caught him at it. There was no Swordsman now. He could shoot however he chose.

Laughing to himself he set the bow aside and began the stretches that he should have done before beginning to shoot. Town life hadn’t been unkind his body – he’d spent enough time riding, fencing and boxing that he wasn’t too badly out of condition – and the exercises were pleasurable rather than painful. He hummed with satisfaction as he reached his arms high above his head, then turned the motion into a wave when he saw Captain Coulson coming across the grass towards him.

“Do you need me for something, sir?” Clint called.

“Nothing.” Coulson limped over the last few yards and came to a halt, staring at the target. He looked from Clint to the split arrow and back. “I’m here to satisfy my vulgar curiosity, and if you weren’t expecting me and didn’t stage those arrows for my benefit then I’m already impressed.”

Clint laughed. “Stage them? Why on earth would I? You’re too easily impressed if that’s all it takes.”

“I don’t think so. Do you mind if I stay for a while?”

“If you really care to watch me practice,” Clint said, suddenly a little shy. He hadn’t performed in three years, and even if this was just some simple target practice he felt different knowing that someone’s eyes were on him. Not uncomfortable or nervous – he knew he wouldn’t miss – but finely aware of his own movements and Coulson’s presence, with everything in sharper focus than it had been just a few moments ago. He finished his stretches quickly and picked up his bow. Pacing further back from the target he nocked another arrow, drew, and held yet again until a pleasant ache bloomed in his shoulders.

“I thought the point was to shoot,” Coulson said.

Clint looked sideways at him, finding himself the focus of an intense, curious gaze. He felt himself flush, and let the arrow fly. “Audiences certainly preferred that I did so.”

Coulson’s eyes snapped to the target, then back to Clint. “You weren’t even looking.”

Clint turned to study his handiwork and frowned. He hadn’t consciously thought about where to place the arrow, but he could tell his aim had been slightly off. He was rusty, he thought, sighing, and fired off a few more arrows, concentrating this time. They all hit where they should. Glancing over at Coulson he met that gaze again. It was calm, but constant. Coulson was staring at him, and only him, as though he might never turn away. As though he never wanted to look at anything else.

“Sir?” Clint said, feeling breathlessly confused. Coulson didn’t ever look at him like that. His eyes held kindness or patience, occasionally irritation, on rare occasions anger. Not desire.

It was just his imagination.

“Yes?”

“I… oh, nothing. It’s nothing.” He raised his bow again and turned, seeking another target. The next arrow went neatly through the centre of a new leaf on a tree a little distance away. Another sideways glance told him that Coulson was impressed again, eyes still dark, and he felt an overwhelming urge to show off. He split the arrow, because Coulson seemed to like that, and managed to time the shot so that the breeze that fluttered the leaf was just right and the arrow passed directly through, barely widening the hole in it.

Coulson let out a long, audible breath. “Can you hit a moving target?” he asked.

“Of course,” Clint said, feeling a shiver run down his spine. “Rabbits move.”

Coulson stooped briefly, picked something up from the ground and tossed it into the air. Clint was firing before he even thought about it, knocking the little wizened horse chestnut away into the trees.

Coulson smiled, approving, perhaps even respectful. Warmth blossomed in Clint’s stomach. 

“Again?” Clint asked, and Coulson stooped for another couple of nuts. Like a man throwing a stick for his dog, and Clint wasn’t sure why the thought didn’t make him angry. Coulson straightened up, moving a little stiffly as always, in the way that left Clint wishing that he would only let him rub his leg until the cramping eased, and dig soothing fingertips into the knotted muscles of his back. If only he would take off his shirt and lie down and relax, while Clint took care of him.

Coulson threw. Clint, lost in the images that filled his mind, fired almost too late. He found himself staring at Coulson, so sleek and calm and put-together, but not distant, sharing in Clint’s enjoyment of the game. Clint found himself imagining how it would have been before Coulson’s injury. The young man in the portrait had looked the type who would like to learn to shoot. He imagined Coulson coming over to him and plucking the bow out of his hand, asking – so politely – to be shown how to use it, and drawing it under Clint’s guiding hand, chest and shoulders expanding, breath deepening as he felt the strain.

He would have liked to have known that young man. Philip, light and carefree, chasing his sister around the gardens and laughing as she squealed.

Then he looked at Coulson’s face, with its fine lines of pain. He looked at the injured leg and the cane, and realised with a flash of possessive jealousy that this was the man he preferred. However damaged and tired he might be, Coulson was a good man. He was a man who had done his best to give Clint every attention, had freely given of his home and his friends, and had remained wryly kind and unfailingly generous through it all.

And, in his own way, he was just as beautiful as Lord Stark or Captain Rogers.

They had been watching each other for long seconds. Neither of them moved. Only Coulson’s eyes flicked down to take in Clint’s body, then back up to his face. His lips curled into a tiny smile. Swallowing, Clint wondered breathlessly if Coulson could see the beginnings of his arousal.

“Sir,” he said, lowering the bow. “Would you… do you want…”

“Clint,” Coulson said quietly.

Clint moved towards him as though drawn there by a thread. Coulson’s eyes were still on him, dark and hungry and _wanting_. Clint could barely breathe. He felt so awkward, there in the middle of the grass, exposed and uncouth. He didn’t deserve to be looked at that way. But the captain was looking, and Clint went stumbling desperately forwards into his arms.

Hands caught him. A hot mouth was on his own, fierce and domineering, and Clint, who had no idea what he was doing, found himself swept away to a place where that didn’t matter in the slightest.

He didn’t know how long they kissed, but by the time Coulson took his hand and led him back into the house his mind was blurred and his body was aching with need. Coulson led him through the looming wooden doorway, across the marble hallway and up the main staircase – miles of distance, and he was impatient, he couldn’t bear to wait any longer – and finally they reached a bedroom and fell through the door, gasping and clutching at each other as they stumbled to the bed.

Coulson pushed Clint down onto it, kissed him and stripped him and proceeded to take him apart piece by piece.

It wasn’t that Clint’s fantasies were fulfilled. It was that after this they would never be the same.

He hadn’t known. When he had imagined Lord Stark or Captain Rogers taking him to bed he’d thought only of the pleasure of it. He’d imagined their bodies moving against his own, the building heat and the desperate thrusts and the tumble over into bliss. He had never imagined the reality. He hadn’t imagined the unutterable intimacy of it, and how it might feel to have someone laugh against his skin and kiss him with fierce joy, as though he were infinitely precious. He hadn’t imagined being taught without words the frailties of a damaged body, and giving his own strength into another person’s control so that they might move together as one whole, healthy creature. He hadn’t imagined anything remotely as tender in his dreams of being with those other men, and he never would. He didn’t want it with Lord Stark or Captain Rogers. He didn’t want it with anyone but Captain Coulson.

When they made love he felt broken and raw and perfect. 

Afterwards, lying there in Coulson’s arms, he felt cold.

As the haze of pleasure faded he could only think of Lord Loki’s letter. It was right there beside the bed, tucked into the pocket of his discarded jacket, an incontrovertible proof of who he really was. Not a young husband giving up his virginity to the man he loved. A thief. A blackmailer and a fraud.

Captain Coulson wanted him, cared for him, and Clint wished so desperately that it could be real. All the silly, romantic notions that the first time could be _special_ might have been true for him if the whole thing hadn't been soured with lies.

He must have stiffened or made some small noise, because Coulson’s hand stilled in its gentle stroking over his back.

“Clint, is something wrong?”

Clint couldn’t find a word to say. Anything he tried would have been yet another lie, and he couldn’t bear it. He could only press his face into the pillow, hiding from Coulson’s eyes.

“Do you regret this?” Coulson said. He waited a moment, and then abruptly sat up. “You needn’t worry. I know I’ve no claim on you and I won’t let it complicate our relationship. Feel free to think of it as just another hour you’ve spent with a man in your bed.”

Clint’s pained little gasp of laughter sounded more like a sob. The idea that something like this could be _just another_ …

“Oh,” Coulson said quietly. The bed shifted as he moved. “Oh Clint, I’m a fool, aren’t I? Have you ever been with someone that way before?”

Face still buried in the pillow, Clint shook his head.

Coulson drew in his breath. There was a long pause. Then he said, “If I'd thought to ask I would have taken better care. Did I hurt you?”

He sounded so gentle. A good man, Clint thought, and felt like he was drowning in shame. “I'm not hurt,” he said, and his voice shook around a sudden lump in his throat. He wanted desperately not to cry just yet, not until he could sob out his misery in private. “Please, would you leave me alone?”

“Clint, I--”

“Please.”

“All right. Take your time. I’ll have the servants bring up water for a bath, and clean clothes for you. And if there's anything I can do, if you need anything, come to me.”

“Yes sir,” Clint mumbled. He listened to Coulson’s halting footsteps move away, and clenched his hands in the sheets as the first tears bled from behind his closed eyelids.

 

**********

 

Three days later found Phil in the drawing room of the Stark townhouse. Only her ladyship sat with him, Lord Stark himself having been dispatched to another room for being tiresome and unhelpful and altogether in the way.

“So,” Lady Stark said, “explain it to me from the beginning. And remember, you don’t need to mind your tongue on my account. I’m married to Tony; I’ve heard it all before, I promise you.’

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Phil said. “I don’t understand it myself.”

“What happened?”

“I took him to Coulson Hall. I had business there and I knew he would wish to go because he would be able to shoot. I liked having him there.” He had to smile, thinking back on the first night when they had lingered over dinner and talking of his family. “He bore me company on the drive and made the house seem less like a mausoleum and more like a home. It felt like the place I used to love when I showed it to him. In the morning he took his bow out into the grounds and I went to watch him. Pepper, I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life. He shot flawlessly and he took such joy in it. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. And… I don’t know how it happened, but he fired his last arrow and turned to me looking so lost and unsure. And then he came to me and kissed me.”

“And what did you do?”

“I took him to bed. I couldn’t have done anything else. I took him and gave him every pleasure I could. I didn’t… I didn’t realise that he was a virgin.”

There was compassion in her eyes when she looked at him, but puzzlement too. “Is that so unexpected? He's not much more than a boy.”

“The life he's lived...” He shook his head, angry with himself. “I shouldn't have assumed.”

“Phil, is it really so terrible? You are married, you know, and I can't imagine you would have done anything against his will.”

“No, he was - eager,” he said, thinking longingly back to the sweet way that Clint's mouth had opened under his. “But afterwards he wouldn't look at me.”

“Oh, Phil.”

“And now… I don’t understand. I’ve told him that I enjoyed what we shared and would be pleased if we could share it again, but that we needn’t if he doesn’t want to. I think he knows that I care for him. Perhaps that’s making him uncomfortable, but he doesn’t seem uncomfortable. He seems so desperately unhappy that I can’t bear it.”

She sighed and put her hand over his. “I don’t understand either, Phil. But don’t give up. I still think I did the right thing by throwing the two of you together.”

“You were hoping I’d fall in love with him, I suppose.”

“Perhaps. I hoped he’d help you and distract you, at least. Have you fallen in love?”

“Yes.” He sighed. There was no denying it now, not with the memory of Clint’s every hungry gasp burned into his brain. “Head over heels, Pepper. And I don’t know what to do.”

***

Apparently Clint had informed the kitchen staff that he was dining out that night. He hadn’t chosen to inform Phil.

A few weeks ago Phil would have thought nothing of it. Even now he was so used to knowing Clint’s whereabouts, he could easily have put it down to an unexpected invitation and a forgetful servant failing to pass on a message. But the previous night Clint, never much of a drinker, had been swaying on his feet by the time they left their party. Any unhappy young man determined to tumble into a bottle could find plenty of trouble in London, and Phil was not comfortable knowing Clint was out there somewhere on his own.

He brooded over a solitary meal before setting off to his club in search of Steve. He was lucky. Steve and Lieutenant Barnes were in the dining room, lingering over their brandy when he came in.

Phil and the lieutenant had been a trifle awkward around one another to begin with, what with one thing and another, but they got on well enough now. After the first pleasantries had been exchanged, Phil asked him, “Is Clint escorting Mrs Barnes to a party tonight?”

Barnes shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of. Natasha has business to attend to, I believe.”

Phil didn’t enquire further, though he did have a certain ill-advised curiosity about the kind of business that Mrs Barnes conducted.

“I met him at the boxing saloon earlier,” Steve put in. “I asked him if I should see him tonight, but he told me he was engaged to attend a masquerade at the Opera House with young Mr Storm.”

“He’s gone to a public masquerade with Johnny Storm?” Phil said. “Steve, why on earth didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I thought you’d know. The pair of you have been mighty close of late,” Steve said pointedly.

Phil flushed. Obviously Pepper was not the only one who had been detecting something more than friendship in his dealings with Clint. “Well, at least you’ve told me now. You’ll excuse me if I go to collect him?”

“Of course,” Steve said. “But Phil, I thought your arrangement meant he could choose his own entertainments. Do you have the right to bring him home from a harmless public dance?”

“I’ve every right to take care of him when he’s unhappy,” Phil said, and shot Steve a sharp look to warn him that any further comment would not be gratefully received.

***

Phil was well aware that he looked out of place at the masquerade in his simple eveningwear, while surrounded by ladies and gentlemen in historical costume or bright-coloured dominos and masks. He had no desire to fit in with this mass of humanity. There was only one person of interest to him, and no matter how difficult the task he was determined to find Clint.

Knowing the mood Clint had been in of late, he began by looking around for signs of trouble.

After some time, enough walking to make him lean heavily on his cane, and jostlings and apologies from far too many merry revellers, he spotted what was definitely the beginnings of a scuffle on the other side of the floor. Forging a determined path through the partygoers he discovered a group of young men in various stages of inebriation, cheering on two of their number, who were circling each other, exchanging vicious insults as they waited for an opening, ready to leap in snapping and snarling like dogs. One of the two, naturally, was Clint. He was dressed in a purple domino , and his cheeks, below the mask, were flushed with wine and fury.

Phil stepped out into the midst of the group. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, pitched to cut through the clamour.

Heads turned as the men registered his presence and Clint swore, before spitting another insult at his erstwhile enemy. Phil ignored him and nodded to the men he recognised under their finery. “Mr Parker, Mr Storm. With your permission I’d like a word with my husband.”

“He’s busy,” another of the young men said.

One advantage to using a cane was that it provided an excellent means of drawing the attention. Phil raised it no higher than ankle height, but the sharp movement drew every eye to him.

“Is he?” he asked silkily.

The group melted away to the sides, pulling away the other combatant and leaving Clint standing alone in the middle.

“Clint,” Phil said, “with me.”

“Why?” Clint said roughly. He was drunk enough to slur over the word.

“Not here, if you please. Come into the corridor.”

In the army Phil had gained plenty of practice in making inebriated and stupid young men do as he bade them. Clint responded instinctively to the note of command and went where he was ushered.

“Well?” Clint demanded once they were in private.

“I’m taking you home. You’ve had enough wine tonight.”

“You think I’m drunk?” Clint said, blinking balefully at Phil out of slightly bloodshot eyes. “Well I’m not. Besides, it’s a party, I’ll drink if I want. You’ve nothing to say to it.”

“It will be more of a brawl than a party if you go back out there,” Phil said wryly. “What were you quarrelling about?”

“Nothing that matters. He just needed to have that smug smile wiped off his face. All of them do. It’s like Barney says, they’re born with silver spoons in their mouths, it’s not right, they don’t deserve--”

“Easy now.” Phil put out a steadying hand as Clint stumbled against him. “Perhaps we should leave politics until you’re feeling a little more yourself.”

“Myself?” Clint said bitterly. “I don’t know what that is any more.”

Phil suppressed a frown, but didn’t comment. “Neither do I,’ he said, “but I know that what you are right now is more than a trifle drunk.” He took gentle hold of his arm. “Come home with me.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m asking you to.”

Clint gave a rough, unhappy laugh. “You’d do better to leave me.”

“I can’t leave without you now,” Phil said. He smiled in an attempt to coax out an answering smile. “We’ll have half the world gossiping that I came to collect you and you refused to go with me. They’d think me a poor husband because of it.”

Clint’s face went from belligerence to distress in a second. “No, they mustn’t,” he said. The alcohol magnified his horror to almost comical levels. “You’re not a poor husband. It’s all my fault, but I swear I didn’t meant for any of this to happen. I never wanted to be a burden and a shame to you.”

“You’re not a burden, and you could never be a shame to me,” Phil soothed.

“Oh,” Clint said, sounding as though someone was squeezing his heart. He leaned against Phil and tipped his head so their foreheads rested together. His wine-laden breath hitched as he spoke. “Sir, I’m so sorry.”

“There’s no harm done, Clint. Everything’s all right. Just let me take you home.”

***

Phil was not surprised when Clint failed to put in an appearance at the breakfast table the next day. He’d been in a sad state by the time they arrived home and even with the help of the butler and Phil’s valet had barely managed to totter up the stairs. Phil had no doubt that he’d woken with the devil of a headache and would wish for nothing more than a cup of coffee in his room and several more hours of sleep.

Riding alone felt miserable now he was so used to Clint’s company, but the weather was fine and the morning ritual was comforting nonetheless. Besides, he told himself, Clint would most likely be awake by the time he arrived home, and they might finally be able to thrash out what had gone so thoroughly wrong between them.

It was with surprise, then, that on quite the other side of the park from their home he recognised a familiar figure, walking hunched inside a battered, ill-fitting coat.

Phil brought his mount to a halt. Clint looked preoccupied and lost in his thoughts, unaware of his surroundings, but he was walking purposefully. He had some destination in mind, and not one that Phil could guess.

The Lancaster Gate was in sight, leading out into Bayswater. Phil waited to be sure that Clint would take it, and then, after a brief struggle with his conscience, he followed. Clint might have the right to conduct his own private business, but after the previous night Phil had every reason to be worried.

Out in the street he spotted Clint quickly. He still had his head down, but that didn’t mean he mightn’t glance up at any moment, and Phil didn’t want to be discovered in his spying. He bade a boy in the street hold his horse and set off in pursuit on foot.

Usually he would have had trouble keeping up with Clint’s pace, but this time there was no difficulty. Clint was dawdling, seemingly unwilling to reach his destination, which turned out to be a tavern outside the fashionable part of town. Clint paused at the door for several minutes, dithering, twice beginning to walk away, but each time going back. Finally he squared his shoulders and went in with the air of one walking to the guillotine.

Phil waited a few minutes more and then pushed the door open cautiously. He scanned the bustling taproom, which was busy even at this time of day, stocked with an assortment of respectable workers and more unsavoury characters. Stepping inside he could still see no sign of Clint, but he spied at least three doors leading into other parts of the tavern. He went up to the bar, pulled a few shillings out of his pocket and laid the first in front of the landlord. “The fair young man in the blue coat?” he asked.

The shilling disappeared promptly. “Gone into the private parlour, yer honour,” the landlord said.

“Alone?”

“There’s another gent in there was waiting for ’im.”

“What kind of person?”

The landlord looked meaningfully at Phil’s hand. Phil placed another coin on the bar.

“Bit older, bit shabbier. I’ve seen the pair of ’em in here a time or two before. Don’t know their names. They look a lot alike. Brothers, perhaps.”

“Thank you,” Phil said. He frowned to himself. Of course Clint was welcome to visit his brother, and perhaps it made sense for him to do so in his old clothes so that people wouldn’t wonder what a young gentleman wanted with a stable hand. It could be perfectly innocent. But judging by Clint’s manner the explanation was not quite so simple.

“Point me to the parlour,” he said.

“I’ll send Bessy to take you to them.”

“No. I don’t want to be introduced. Just tell me which door. Is it quiet enough in the corridor that they can be heard from outside?”

The landlord gave a smile that was half sneer. “Aye, it is. Eavesdropping, are you? And here was me thinking you was Quality.”

“What you think is of no interest to me whatsoever,” Phil said. He laid down another coin. “The parlour, if you please.”

***

In the corridor outside the tavern’s private parlour the voices from the room were muffled but perfectly audible. Phil had watched a serving maid enter with a tray and leave again before he approached the door. Probably nobody would disturb either the occupants or Phil himself for a little while, although they might frown at him in passing.

He tilted his head unashamedly closer to the door.

“You’ve done well, little brother,” a vaguely familiar voice was saying. Almost certainly Barney Barton, Phil confirmed. The timbre was very similar to Clint’s, although this voice was far less refined and a trifle gloating. “That would be worth something indeed. Hand it over, then.”

“I… I didn’t bring it,” Clint said. He was worried and uncertain, just as he had been for days. “I left it behind. Please, could we think about this first? The captain is a good man, Barney. I don’t want to do this to him.”

 _Do what?_ Phil thought, feeling a chill creep up his spine.

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. He’ll never need to know, and you’d better not be spilling your guts to him, Clint. I know what you’re like when your conscience comes a-pricking, and I won’t have it.”

“But we don’t need to use the letter,” Clint said with an edge of desperation. “We don’t need the Duke’s money. We’ll be perfectly comfortable. The captain will look after me and I’ll make sure to look after you as best I can.”

“God save me from useless brats,” the elder Mr Barton said. “Clint, I’m calling the moves in this game. Your part in it is to do as you’re told and keep your mouth shut. Now fetch me that letter.” He paused, and a sly, knowing note came into his voice. “But you don’t need to fetch it. You brought it with you, didn’t you? Ah, Clint, you never could make up your mind to anything on your own. I’ll wager you walked into this room not knowing if you’d give it to me or not. Well it’s not your choice any more. Hand it over.”

“I…” Clint began uncertainly. “Barney, no. I don’t want to.”

Barton laughed. “You’ll do as you’re bid, my lad. Or do you forget that I hold another secret?”

“What secret?” Clint said.

“Yours.”

“What-?”

“Give me that letter,” Barton said, and Phil could practically see the self-satisfied cruelty on his face, “or your precious Captain will know what manner of man he married.”

There was a long pause. 

“Tell him, then,” Clint said, almost too quietly for Phil to hear. “It’s better than any more lies. And if he casts me aside, I deserve it. I’d rather live without him than do anything to hurt him.”

Barton laughed. “Oh, he’ll not hear it from me. He’ll hear it from his high-flown friends, who’ll hear it from every chattering magpie of a gossip in all of London town.”

Phil felt his face drain of blood. He knew what would happen if Clint’s true background was revealed to the world. If this worse business became known, whatever it was, what then? A business of letters to be used and money from dukes…

 _Blackmail_ , Phil thought, feeling sick.

“You’re not the only one who’ll be cast aside,” Barton continued, clearly enjoying himself. “He’ll be a disgrace and a laughing stock. There won’t be a one of the Quality who’d stoop so low as to spit on him when I’m done. That letter’s mine, Clint. Give it me now, and you can run off to your happy home with no one the wiser. Or don’t give it to me, and you won’t have a home to go back to.”

“No,” Clint said. “Please.”

“Hand it over.”

Clint let out a desperate breath, audible even through the woodwork. “You mustn’t hurt him.”

“And I won’t, not while you behave yourself. All I’m asking is that you do what you promised.”

“Please,” Clint said again. “I can’t keep lying.”

“I’ve told you what’ll happen if you disobey me. Will you give me that letter or not?” 

There was another long pause, punctuated finally with a rustle of paper.

“Thank you kindly,” Barton said, and the next instant there was the sound of a smacking blow and a yelp of pain. “And don’t dare cross me again.”

Phil wrenched the door open. It was a stupid thing to do, but he did it anyway. His pounding heart didn’t really give him a choice.

In the small, cosy parlour Clint was shrinking back against the wall, one hand up to protect his face from his brother’s fist. As he saw Phil he froze, his mouth open in horrified surprise. Barton turned and a slow smile spread across his face.

“So,” he said, “the fine Mr Coulson. How long have you been listening?”

“Long enough,” Phil said tightly.

“I dare say it was,” Barton said, cold satisfaction radiating from every inch of him. “Long enough to learn who young Clint really is. It comes as a shock, I know. When you look at that sweet, innocent little face you’d never think that he can lie like a snake.”

Clint’s mouth moved silently. _Sir_ , his lips shaped.

Phil ignored him and looked at Barton, assessing. He was a big man, bigger and stronger-looking than Clint, though having seen Clint move Phil expected he’d win a fair fight between them. But there wasn’t going to be a fair fight. Clint was too used to taking blows from this man, and Phil, for all his old skill, knew better than to think he himself could win this particular fight. Besides, even if he’d had his strength and could knock Barton down, Barton would still hold the Coulson family’s good name in his hands.

“I can see you’re not a fool,” Barton said, with an approving nod. “You know how this plays out. If you don’t want the world to know your secret you’ll take this little guttersnipe home and play-act that nothing’s changed. Now--” he grinned, a flash of crooked teeth, and patted his pocket, “--if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some business to conduct.” 

He pushed past Phil into the corridor and went on his way, without a glance back at his brother.

Phil was left there with his heart pounding with anger and shock. The carefully built-up structures of his life and family were swaying on their foundations. He knew with cold certainty that he could lose everything through this one piece of idiocy: allowing Clint Barton into his life.

“What did he take from you?” he said.

Clint looked chalk pale, almost dazed. “A letter,” he said. His eyes, which had been staring past Phil and into the corridor, flicked to Phil’s face and hastily away.

“What letter?”

“Lord Thor’s. From his brother. It… it proves Lord Loki Odinson was a traitor to the crown.”

Phil swore under his breath. “And how did you come by it?” he asked.

“I stole it,” Clint whispered. “At the ball for Lord Thor’s engagement. I slipped out and went through his papers.”

“A ball you were invited to as my husband,” Phil said, gripping tight to the head of his cane until his knuckles whitened and his palm throbbed. “So you came to me as a route to blackmail my friends?” He squeezed his eyes closed. He felt old, all of a sudden, and incredibly tired. It was an effort to open them again. “You’ve lied to me every day for months, Clint. Don’t lie to me now. Was that the reason?”

Clint nodded, not taking his eyes off the floor. “I’m sorry,” he said. His voice cracked, thick with tears. “I didn’t want to.”

“Didn’t you? I take it your brother held a knife to your throat, then?”

“No, but--”

“You astonish me,” Phil said bitterly.

“You don’t know!” Clint said. “You can’t understand. You think it’s a great worry to take your brothers away from school, but we spent our lives worrying we’d have nothing to eat and no warmth and die from weakness and fever.”

“Perhaps. But as I recall you had five thousand pounds in your pocket when you began this venture.”

“I had to,” Clint said, half sobbing. “Barney asked me to do it. I owe him everything, sir, he saved my life, he’s my brother, I love him.”

“And he seems to love you very deeply in return.”

Clint made a wounded, animal sound and pushed past Phil into the corridor. He was down the stairs before Phil could even turn around.

Phil swore roundly and started to limp after him, but it wasn’t the least bit of use. By the time he got down to the taproom the door was hanging open and Clint was gone.

He swore again, sat down at the bar and demanded a glass of brandy from the bewildered landlord. In his head, he heard Clint’s voice saying: _I’d rather live without him than do anything to hurt him_.

He drank down the brandy in a gulp and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, suppressing a groan. Amid his whirl of confusion and anger he was beginning to feel like a damned fool.

 

**********

 

Clint was lying on the sofa in Natasha’s little sitting room with a damp flannel over his eyes, telling himself that he must be the most miserable soul in all the world. 

He’d run to Natasha, of course. If she hadn’t been in town he didn’t know where he would have gone, except back to the Coulson town house to await his judgement. She had taken one look at his pale face, sighed, and dragged him inside, telling him kindly that she wouldn’t say _I told you so_. She’d listened while he snarled out his fury and despair, until the combination of emotion and the previous night’s excesses left him almost too shaky to sit upright. Then she’d pulled the drapes and left him in the dim room to rest.

Rest was not coming easily. 

He felt like a fox with its foot caught in a gin trap, writhing and tugging but unable to find any way to get free. Barney had him helpless. There was no life left to him here, but no escape either.

He was fretfully re-dampening the flannel, warm now, and no longer soothing, when a commotion of voices broke into his unhappy reflections. Captain Rogers was the first he heard, voice raised and questioning, and then Lord Stark, and her ladyship lower and calmer. Footsteps came on the stairs and in the corridor, and then he heard Natasha outside.

“I’ve no intention of preventing you from seeing him,” she said calmly. “I’ve told him he can’t skulk in my sitting room forever.”

Clint hopped to his feet, horrified. He should have expected this. Anyone who knew him would know where he’d go if he was in trouble, and he should have expected that Natasha wouldn’t let him wallow in his misery for long. She hadn’t the patience to serve as protector and confidante, no matter how true a friend she might be.

The door opened. Natasha swept in with Captain Rogers at her heels, followed by Lord and Lady Stark. Behind them, still and expressionless, was Captain Coulson.

Natasha flicked an eyebrow at him, as if to say, “ _You made your bed. Now lie in it._ ”

Clint couldn’t find a single word to say. Neither, it seemed, could any of the others.

“Well,” Natasha said, smiling wryly, “this is a pleasant meeting. Gentlemen, your ladyship, I present to you Clint Barton, a good-hearted young idiot of my acquaintance. You all have a bone to pick with him, I believe. But before you make any judgement, ask yourself if anyone here hasn’t lied at some stage during this business.”

The company unfroze. Captain Rogers glanced at Captain Coulson and blushed. Lord and Lady Stark glanced at each other. Natasha smirked at them.

“Don’t be too hard on him,” she said. “His only real fault is excessive loyalty, combined with a bad habit of trusting the wrong people. I hope he’ll grow wiser in time.”

Clint flinched. _Trusting the wrong people._ He had. The knowledge of what Barney was willing to do to him felt like a festering sickness deep inside his bones. He didn’t know which was worse: that, or the raw wound of Coulson’s disgust.

“I’ve no bone to pick,” Lord Stark said. “I’ve come to take a look at the man who managed to fool my wife. Congratulations, Mr Barton. She swore you were a sweet, honest youth.”

“And so he is,” her ladyship said calmly, shooting a smile at Clint.

Clint felt his throat close up. He looked away from her, fighting tears, and found himself caught instead by Captain Coulson’s steady gaze.

“You promised you wouldn’t be a nuisance to me, Clint,” Coulson said.

“I lied, “ Clint said painfully. “I’ve told a lot of lies.”

“Yes, you have. So many that I can’t tell what’s a lie and what’s the truth.”

He stepped forward around Steve’s large form and crossed the room with slow steps. Clint tried to twitch away, but Coulson’s hand closed tight around his wrist, drawing him down to sit on the couch.

“I need you to talk to me,” he said. “Tell me what happened, from the beginning.” 

Clint looked desperately up at Natasha. She looked blandly back at him. There was no help to be had from that quarter.

Clint drew a deep breath. “There’s nothing I can say in my defence, but if you want me to tell you, I will.” He cast his mind back, trying to pick a place to start. “When I first told Barney about the money—”

“No,” Coulson said.

Clint stiffened. “No?”

Coulson shook his head. “I think the tale starts a lot further back than that.” He looked around at the assembled company. “I fear this may take some time. Mrs Barnes, dare I ask you to entertain my companions in the meantime?”

Natasha gave him a sardonic look, as though to ask if she really had any choice in the matter. She went to the door and firmly ushered the others outside.

Clint, left alone with the man he’d betrayed, found himself holding his breath.

“From the beginning,” Coulson said, laying his hand firmly on Clint’s forearm.

“I don’t understand.”

“ _I_ need to understand,” Coulson said. “I need to understand why you acted as you did. So start at the beginning.”

Clint dug his fingernails into his palms and started to talk.

He told Coulson about the workhouse and the circus, and about the Swordsman. He told how it had been to learn marksmanship and courtly manners, and how it had been when his master turned on him. He was crying by that point, and talking through the tears in a torrent that he couldn’t have stemmed if he tried. He told about leaving the circus, saying goodbye to Natasha and coming back to England to start a new life with Barney. That life looked so different in retrospect. He’d been pathetically grateful for Barney’s help and kindness, but now he wondered if Barney had ever cared about him, except as someone whose skills were valuable and whose loyalty would be freely given. Not a brother, but a tool to be used.

And he told of the plan and its execution, and of finding Lord Thor’s letter, and the struggle of his loyalties. And how it had felt when the two of them were together in the grounds of Coulson Hall.

He didn’t know how it happened, but by the time his tale caught up with the present he was wrapped up tight in Coulson’s arms, and Coulson’s neat coat was damp with his tears.

“And I love you,” Clint finished, choking down another sob. He had to say it, because this story could only be the full and absolute truth. “I love you and I’m sorry.”

They sat for a long while. His face was still buried in Coulson’s shoulder, and Coulson was stroking his back as he had the one and only time they’d made love.

Coulson sighed. “My poor boy. What am I to do with you?”

“I have to stay,” Clint said, feeling numbly miserable. “You can hate me as much as you want, you needn’t speak to me when we're in private, but I _have_ to. If I don’t he’ll tell the world what I am and you’ll be ruined. And I…” He swallowed, trying to choke down another fit of tears. “I have to keep stealing for him. I’m under his thumb just as the Duke of Asgard will be.”

“He would truly make the secret known,” Coulson said. It wasn’t a question. “I must say, I’m not overly fond of my brother-in-law. Clint, think. Is there anything that might persuade him to give back the letter and give up his plans.”

Clint shook his head helplessly. “He likes to be in control. He wouldn’t give back the letter at any price, not when he could keep it as insurance for years to come.” He didn’t think he needed to say how unwilling Barney would be to give up his hold over Clint. Coulson had been there in the parlour of the tavern. He’d seen Barney’s face, and seen how much he relished it.

“How much money do you think would satisfy him?” Coulson said. His mouth was set in a thin line. “Annually, let us say.”

“You couldn’t afford it,” Clint said miserably.

“No, I couldn’t. But if it will keep you from being forced to search through any more private papers I’ll set aside my pride.”

“Sir?”

“Pepper will give me whatever I need,” Coulson said. His eyes were expressionless.

Clint shook his head. “All of this only began to save you from applying to her.”

“And now I see how wrong I was. It was foolish of me to gamble my future on you, rather than take what help my friends could offer. I’ve learned my lesson, and I won’t have others suffer because of my folly. It’s bad enough that the Duke of Asgard might fall into your brother’s hands. Nobody else.”

“It’s not your folly,” Clint said, agonised. “It’s my fault.”

“It’s both. We’re quite the pair of fools.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” Coulson said. He rubbed his thumb lightly over the back of Clint’s hand. “What’s done is done. Now we can only decide what to do next.”

Surprisingly, in the midst of everything, that ‘ _we_ ’ made Clint feel minutely better. Whatever else might happen, at least the captain had not completely cast him out. He might still let Clint help in any way he could. If only there were a way. Clint couldn’t see one.

“If it comes to it,” Coulson said, “we’ll let him tell the world. That’s the only way to solve it, in truth. I’ll brazen it out, or not. We might lose our place in society, but is it really so terrible? It’s as you said. At least I won’t have to fear that my brothers will starve.”

“You won’t have to fear at all,” Natasha said.

Clint well-nigh jumped out of his skin. He hadn’t heard her come in, and had had no concept that he was being watched.

“What do you mean?” Captain Coulson asked, coming to his feet and bringing Clint with him.

“I think Barney Barton needn’t trouble you any further.”

As she spoke the door opened and Lieutenant Barnes came into the room, Captain Rogers behind him and Lord and Lady Stark forming an interested tail to the procession. Natasha looked questioningly at Barnes, and he grinned and pulled a folded letter out from the inside pocket of his coat. “There,” he said, holding it out to Clint. “Burn it before it does any more harm.”

Clint stared at him, disbelieving, and then at the letter. Undoubtedly it was the same one that Barney had taken that morning. _No_ , he thought, panicked. It felt as though he were being slowly torn in two down the centre. His legs threatened to give out beneath him. He took the pages, crumpling the paper as his hands shook. “Did you kill him?” he whispered.

Beside him Coulson caught his breath, but his hand stayed steady on Clint’s elbow.

Lieutenant Barnes shook his head. “Steve tells me I’m not a killer. I haven’t disappointed him yet and I had no wish to do so today.”

“Oh, thank god,” Clint choked out. His chest felt painfully tight. All he could see was his brother’s face. If Barney had died at the Soldier’s hand he never would have forgiven himself.

“Clint?” Captain Coulson said.

Clint gave a relieved little gasp as his lungs finally filled, and pressed the letter into his hand. Coulson took it to the fireplace, tossed it in, and used a poker to push the pages well into the back of the grate. They watched the flames consume the lines of green ink, until the pages were nothing more than skeletons of ash.

“How did you get it?” Lord Stark asked.

Lieutenant Barnes shrugged. “I found our friend Mr Barton in a tavern some seven miles from London,” he said. “We’ve met before, so I had no need to introduce myself. All I did was tell him – perfectly politely – that I’d been sent to reclaim the letter, and that he wasn’t to bother Clint again. He gave it to me and promised me that he wouldn’t. Who would have thought he’d be so agreeable?”

“Your reputation precedes you,” Stark said.

Barnes smiled wolfishly. “So they tell me.”

“So it’s over,” Coulson said. There was a slight tremble in his voice that Clint, recognised as utter relief. It was a stunning realisation to find that Coulson, despite his perfect poise, had been afraid. “Can this really be finished so easily?”

“It’s finished,” Barnes said. His smile dropped away. Not _easily_ , Clint realised. This ending was only possible because of the person Barnes had become, forged from five years of pain and hundreds of deaths. It could never count as easy. “He won’t cross me. I’m not sure if I would kill him, but he has no doubt of it.”

“And nobody else knows of this?” Coulson said. “Clint, is there anyone your brother would have told?”

“Nobody,” Clint said. It had only ever been the two of them, together.

Natasha smiled coolly, going to her husband’s side and taking his hand. “This part of the matter is finished, at least,” she said. “Captain Coulson, I think perhaps you still have some decisions to make.”

Coulson nodded, and Clint felt the frozen uncertainty of one waiting for the judge’s gavel to fall. Quietly, everyone else melted away once again, leaving him and the captain alone.

***

In his mixture of relief and grief Clint had forgotten just how truly lost he would be now that the whole dirty business was over. From the moment the door closed behind Natasha the reality of it began to wash over him. He knew he would never see his brother again. He had no way back into his old life of thievery, and not a penny of his own in all the world.

Still, he tried to meet Coulson’s eyes bravely.

“You’re safe now,” he said. “It’s all done with. I’ll leave London and nobody ever need know. You can put it about that I died in some accident. It will mean you’ll have to play the widower for a little while, but after that you can go on just as before. The money…” He swallowed, thinking of the many times he’d slept out in the open in his life, but forged on. “The money’s yours, of course. I hope it mends what’s wrong on your estates.”

Coulson tilted his head with curious impassivity. “I believe Mrs Barnes told me that I have some decisions to make,” he said. “Are you presuming to make them for me?”

Clint blinked. “No sir,” he said.

“Good. Because I disagree with you entirely. You’ve put me to a great deal of trouble, getting you established in society. I’d hate all that work to be wasted.”

Clint swallowed again, hearing a roar of blood in his ears. “Sir?” he asked faintly.

Coulson reached out, slowly, carefully. His fingers brushed Clint’s own. “My dear,” he said, “do you think I could live without you now?”

“I—”

“If you’ll have me,” Coulson said, “I want you to stay. I want you to be mine in truth. You’ll have no choice but to play cricket with my brothers and learn the business of managing my estates and be polite to all of the catty old ladies who can help to find Julia a good husband. It will be dreadful. Will you do it?”

“You can’t,” Clint said, baffled. “I lied to you. I’m a thief. You can’t _want_ me.”

“I do.”

“But you can’t. You must be mad to let me back into your life now, I—”

“I want you as I’ve never wanted anything.”

“But—”

“ _Clint_ ,” Coulson said, exasperated, and then, seeing that words were not making the necessary impact, went about proving his point by other means.

His lips were really very convincing, Clint thought, sinking deep into the kiss. He couldn’t begin to recall what his objections had been, and every time he tried to focus on them Coulson would nip at his bottom lip or mouth along the side of his jaw in such a way that coherent thought became impossible.

Clint was losing the battle to keep his moans inaudible then there was a cough from the doorway.

“Well,” Lord Stark said, “I’m sent to see if you would care for some dinner, since the rest of the party are tired of popping in and out of this room like jack-in-the-boxes. But now I’m here I think I’ll stay and enjoy the show. As a pair you look _quite_ delectable.”

“Get out, Tony,” Coulson said. He seemed too absorbed in the task of kissing Clint to care whether he’d been obeyed. 

Clint didn’t care either. Coulson’s mouth on his own was all that he needed. He could have laughed to think that once upon a time he’d wanted Lord Stark to take him to bed. Now he knew what love should be: passion and comfort and coming home. He wanted to spend his life next to this man, to wake up beside him every day, and go to bed with him at night. He wanted forever.

“Sir,” he said. “Phil?”

“Yes?”

Clint grinned, feeling himself light up with happiness. Coulson’s answering smile warmed him from his head to his toes. “It may be a little late to ask… but will you marry me?”

“I will,” Coulson said, laughing. He took Clint’s left hand, held it tight, and pressed a kiss to the simple gold band that adorned his finger. “I have."


End file.
